 
### Table of Contents

Front matter

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Acknowledgments

About the Author
Rory's once promising ballet career was destroyed by family tragedy and illness. She turned her life around and became a lawyer. Now at the start of her legal career, she lacks passion in her work and self-confidence in her abilities. But when she meets gorgeous, mysterious Russian ballroom dancer, Sasha, at a firm holiday party, her passions for life and dance are immediately re-kindled.

Since being torn from his Siberian family as a child, Sasha's life ambition has been to be world ballroom champion, a path he was destined for until his former partner pulled the plug on their partnership. She went on to win the world title, leaving him, without a partner equal in ability, forever in second place. The instant he lays eyes on Rory, he recognizes the depth of her passion and talent, and falls hard for her in more ways than one.

But she also reminds him of great pain from his past. He must not only overcome his own demons but convince her to leave her demanding law career, and all that she has worked for in her adult life, to train with him full-time in order for their partnership - both on and off the dance floor - to work.

This is part one in a continuing three-book series.

***

Praise for writing by Tonya Plank

Swan Lake Samba Girl (blog):

"Tonya Plank is one of the blogosphere's freshest, liveliest, least predictable, and most pleasing voices. Long may she samba!" Terry Teachout, author, All in the Dances: A Life of George Balanchine.

"Tonya Plank [is] one of New York's most precious assets..." James Wolcott, Vanity Fair online.

Swallow (novel):

"Hooks you from the opening pages with its breathless urgency and captures what it's like to live in NY now, with money worries and ambition and myriad obligations breathing down your neck... give it a try." -Vanity Fair Online, James Wolcott, January 15, 2010

"Plank has a knack for combining philosophical opinions, hard-luck family stories, discount shopping triumphs, and gently slapstick humor into a book that makes readers laugh, think, and swallow hard in sympathy." -ForeWord Reviews

"Chatty and engaging. A great beach read." Gotham Gal

"I found it easy to read and finish this book, and I wanted to see what would happen in the end." IndieReader

"Unlike any novel I've ever read before, and I loved it from the first sentence to the last." Blue Archipelago Reviews

"...I was happy with the way the story turned out and delighted in watching the main character grow. I liked the message of the book also as I think it's an important one for all of us."- The Cajun Book Lady

"Wow! This book was a revelation! Tonya Plank's writing style is captivating and natural, Sophie is a very likable girl-next-door character, Swallow is truly a great surprise novel. would recommend it to everyone." Ex Libris

"Read it instead of seeing 'Sex and the City.'" Christy Leigh Stewart (YouTube video)

"Very unique and different, and a wonderful story that was a pleasure to read! I can't wait to read more by Tonya!" Hanging Off the Wire

"Essentially, Swallow is a coming-to-grips-with-who-you-are story. And it's a good one." Basil & Spice
FEVER

A Ballroom Romance

Book One

INFECTIOUS RHYTHM SERIES

Tonya Plank
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and is not the author's intent.

Copyright © 2015 Tonya Plank

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Dark Swan Press, 8721 Santa Monica Blvd, #335, West Hollywood, CA 90069-4507.

Smashwords edition

ISBN paperback: 978-1-942289-00-5

ISBN paperback: 1-942289-00-6

ISBN Kindle: 978-1-942289-03-6

ISBN Kindle: 1-942289-03-0

ISBN Epub: 978-1-942289-06-7

ISBN Epub: 1-942289-06-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906776

Edited by Julia Ganis, Juliaedits.com

Cover design by Marisa-rose Shor, Cover Me Darling
For all the Latin ballroom dancers who, over the years, have inspired, entertained, intrigued, and captivated me.
Chapter 1

I first saw him at The Beverly Hilton. Witnessed him, is more like it. It was an early November holiday party thrown by my boyfriend's entertainment law firm. I was secretly hoping I'd see some of the celebrities the firm represented. But no such luck. The room was filled only with boring lawyers. And, admittedly, I was one of them. I didn't work at James's firm, though. I'd just graduated from Hastings Law School in San Francisco and James wanted me to move down to L.A. with him. He was infatuated with L.A.

Tuxedoed waiters had just brought us bowls of chocolate mousse. I nearly inhaled mine, hoping they'd soon open the dance floor. I'd been pretty bored for much of the evening, to be honest. James and Mitchell, the partner seated with us, talked of contract clauses and made veiled references to actors they couldn't name to outsiders. Gossip isn't really that fun when you don't know whom it's about, is it? I tried to make small talk with Mitchell's wife, Cheryl, but we had so little in common. She spent her days getting beauty treatments, tanning, and lunching at places I was embarrassed to say I'd never heard of and well knew I couldn't afford on my small-firm starting salary.

I'd just swallowed my last spoonful of mousse, eyes focused on my empty bowl, when the chandeliers dimmed. Oh good, something was about to happen.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a lush male voice said over a microphone, "we have a special surprise for you tonight." Whispers filled the room. "Before we open the dance floor, the current national ballroom champions would like to perform for you. First in the U.S. and second in the whole world, please welcome...!"

I couldn't make out the names, partly because they were foreign-sounding and partly because James's deep voice continued to vibrate next to me. The man loved to talk.

The room went dark for a few seconds. A low, pulsing drumbeat sounded from afar. James's relentless baritone was really aggravating me. I smacked him on the arm. He jumped and I could see, even in the dark, his confusion.

"Sorry, Rory," he said with an embarrassed laugh and a shrug.

I felt bad, and gently put my fingers to my lips, without turning toward him.

The beat--from a conga drum--grew louder and closer. The spotlight shone down on a figure at the far corner of the floor. He wore form-fitting black clothing, his back toward us. He moved his hips to the pulse of the drums, which was getting heavier and faster. He walked backward, toward the center of the floor, taking these tiny steps, placing one foot behind the other, rocking several times back and forth and circling his pelvis around.

James said something in my direction, perhaps to me. But I was too mesmerized to pay attention to him. I nodded, figuring that would be answer enough for whatever he wanted.

The faster the beat went, the faster the dancer moved his hips and pelvis, and the more quickly he got to the center of the room, taking those small steps. He soon stepped and shook with such speed, his body was a blur. He looked like an upright snake. I'd never seen anyone move like that before. Then I noticed a woman doing the same, coming from the other corner. She had long, platinum hair, tied back into a long French braid. She had large eyes, lashes that practically reached her forehead, full lips, and high cheekbones. Her dress was hot fuchsia, and seemed to be made almost entirely of mesh, save for two patches of fabric covering her nipples, and a bikini bottom. Wow, she had guts. That looked like a costume malfunction waiting to happen. And yet she was dancing with the same confidence as he, snaking toward him at the speed of light. Soon, they turned to each other and took long steps to meet in the middle of the floor, hips gyrating even more.

He was the most intriguingly beautiful man I'd ever seen. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, had jet black hair, slicked back, slightly longish and ending about an inch below the nape of his neck, large dark blue eyes, a well-defined nose, sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. His spandex shirt had a wide, plunging V-neck, revealing very well-defined pecs. His skin was a glowing light bronze. He reached out and grabbed her, whisking her around, and, bending his knees, seated her on his lap. Now their hips rolled in unison. Instinctively, I sat up in my seat and straightened my back, elongating my spine and holding my arms out into the most elegant port de bras I could do, sure no one was watching me. When I did so I realized how restrictive my suit was. I'd danced ballet all throughout my childhood and teen years and once had dreams of becoming a pro. But wow, this looked so much more fun. Not to mention sexy. I squirmed in my seat.

As I fixed on those dark, soulful eyes, it seemed like he peered right back at me, into me, his piercing gaze sending an electric current up my spine. But I knew very well he couldn't see me. I'd known, very briefly, what it was like to be on a stage with lights shining down on you and how you're unable to see anything in the audience. I knew this was what gave a dancer charisma, or that nearly impossible-to-attain thing called presence, that allowed the dancer to connect with the audience in a way that made it seem like he or she was dancing just for you. But in a nanosecond his intense expression lightened into a smile, revealing dimples that made him ooze with boyish charm.

He suddenly straightened and gave his partner a swift little bop to her butt with his pelvis. This was apparently her cue to move, as she took off in a long-stepped, fast-footed snaky walk away from him. He followed behind her, his hip and pelvic movements so much fuller and sexier than hers. I felt like I was going to fall out of my chair, watching him walk like that. He caught up with her and grabbed her from behind. He then beautifully shadowed her with his body by wrapping one arm around her waist and, with the other, grasping her hand and holding it high above her head. Together they bent over at the waist, brushing their arms over and out, then lifted themselves up and arched back--way back--then down again, the whole time moving their hips and feet in these tiny circles, around and around.

The drums stopped and the music changed to Spanish guitars playing slower, dramatic, gypsy-sounding music that soon sped up and began to take on a more playful bullfighter flair. My dancer slowly raised a large, red cape off the floor and held it high above his head. He arched his back and lifted his chest, making the shirt fall open even farther, revealing more of those bronzed pecs, along with major eight-pack abs. I could also spot the outlines of some kind of tattoo, which looked like it snaked all the way around his back, wrapping slightly around each shoulder.

Hmmmm.

Using only the strength of his right arm, he whirled that cape high above his head in a full figure-eight motion. It was like a flash of fire in the black sky. The material looked heavy and I thought he must be damn strong to be able to move it so fully and precisely like that with only one arm.

As the music slowed, so did his arm. The cape came down and he tossed it aside.

"Olé!" shouted one of the guitarists. The music sped up, and the dancer took a deep breath, lifted his chest, eyed his partner, and, with a vigorous snap of his fingers, went dashing toward her. When he met her, he whisked her into the air, her legs flying up and around him, before lowering her into a deep, dramatic dip. He was gentle, yet strong and precise. So trustworthy. After releasing her, he backed away, then ran back to her and did a huge turning jump high in the air, landing in a deep lunge, hand on his knee, chest up and out, a smug smile on his face. What an enormous, brilliant tour jeté! My favorite male athletic feat from ballet. What a truly endearing bravura show-off this guy was!

Just then, the music changed into a soft, slow violin piece. Very romantic, and actually quite ballet-like. I loved it. I wanted so badly to stand up and dance with him, my legs ached. He slowly bent down and held out his hand. She took it and he lifted her, not to her feet but all the way up to his waist, as she spread her legs into a forward split. He made her look weightless, like she was walking on air.

As soon as he set her down, she stood on one leg, lifting the other high in back of her, while he lunged onto one knee like he was proposing. I could do that arabesque penchée; I loved those in ballet. One thing I'd always had in class was hyper-flexibility. My years of dance training--my life before college and law school--flooded my thoughts. The dream I'd had to give up after Daddy died and I got sick. I felt my face get hot. The dancer rose to his feet and spun his partner around him, whipping her into multiple turns. Another step I could do in my sleep, and fast, very fast. I'd learned how to hold my head back and stabilize my equilibrium so I could spin faster, without spotting, like an ice skater. I found myself bouncing in my seat, I wanted so badly to get up and dance with him.

He quickly pulled her into him as if he needed her, couldn't live without her. What woman in that room didn't want to be her? Then, he slowly dipped her, and she arched her back and reached away from him, lifting her leg high up behind him, pointing her toe beautifully for definition. But the most poetic step happened at the end, when he lowered himself to his knees and held his arms out as far as he could to each side, and she lowered her body, back first, draping herself over his shoulders. He rose and carried her, like Apollo and Terpsichore, or Romeo and Juliet.

When she was back on her feet, she took a few steps away from him, and he followed her, longingly. When he caught up to her, he swept her up and carried her, cradle-like, offstage, disappearing into the same dark corner he'd emerged from earlier.

The room was dark and heavy for several seconds, before the chandeliers slowly began to light up. The dancers again emerged from the corner, ran back out onto the floor, took a couple bows, then skipped off through a side door. There was an empty pit in my center.

"You didn't like it, Rory?" James asked me.

"What?" His voice made me jump.

"You're not clapping, like everyone else," he said, laughing and motioning about the room. People were really applauding.

I guess I hadn't joined them. I hadn't even heard them. I'd been transported somewhere else. I didn't even know if I could have moved at that point.

"Oh yeah, yes, I did," I muttered, not really wanting to talk, to be brought back to reality.

"Well, don't sound so enthused." He smirked.

I wondered where the dancers had gone, whether they were coming back. A blue funk began to settle over me as I saw myself back in our small house in Mebane, North Carolina, sitting at the table, reading over and over again my letter of acceptance from the prestigious School of American Ballet to their summer program in New York City. A week later at that same table, Mom telling me no, I wouldn't be going. Times were hard with Daddy gone, and I'd developed anorexia spectrum disorder. Moreover, I'd be transferred from North Carolina School of the Arts, a dance-oriented high school, which I currently attended--and loved--to a "normal" high school. I'd be with normal healthy people, and would go to college and use my brain because, "Contrary to what your father thought, women actually have them."

"Hey, hey, no talking business here!" an older man shouted, reaching behind James. He slapped the table so hard, it jolted me away from my memory, which wasn't a bad thing, given it wasn't such a great one. "Not at our holiday party!" he added, giving the table a smack with each word.

"You're so right, sir. I'm so sorry," said James with a chuckle.

I hadn't realized he and Mitchell had even been talking. James's constant voice was like white noise to me at this point. That nonstop talking was one of the first things that drew me to him. I was shy and with James I never had to worry about uncomfortable silences. The man laughed heartily. Mitchell grinned too. Then they all sat, silently. Lawyers didn't always have a lot to say to each other that wasn't law related.

"Honey, you want another glass of wine?" James said.

I'd already had too many, but I figured it would give James something to do. "Um, sure."

"Got it!" he said, nearly leaping out of his chair.

"Okay, folks, now it's your turn," said a man on the microphone. I hadn't even realized a small band had been setting up onstage after the dancers left. "I think you'll like this one." He sliced his hand through the air at his bandmates and they began playing Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon."

"What? Your boyfriend's gone and left you all alone? I can't believe that guy!"

I knew the voice, and didn't want to turn around. It belonged to Philip, a fellow associate at James's firm, whom I'd met at a prior party, who really enjoyed talking in detail about watching nude scenes in various clients' films--all of whom remained unnamed, of course--to determine whether the nudity clauses in their contracts were violated.

"Come on, why don't you let a real man take you for a little spin," he continued. Was I a car? "If I may say so myself, I'm quite the dancer. Come on, little lady, up off your feet."

Up off your feet? Didn't he mean on? I turned around. He was holding his arm out to me, all gentlemanly and debonair. I had wanted to dance. But...not exactly with this one. I felt myself rising, because he was tugging on my hand. Okay, fine.

When we got to the dance floor and he held me in a close, ever-so-close embrace, I realized he was totally drunk.

"Don't worry, babe. You're totally safe in Daddy's arms!"

His chin was resting on my neck, his right arm was wrapped entirely around me, hand placed not over my left shoulder blade, but on the very top of my right butt cheek. His left hand held my right one high, high in the air and he swung our collective arms up and down with exaggerated emphasis. We swayed side to side, not at all in time with the music. I'm sure if I was watching us I'd be cracking up. Suddenly I felt his left arm rise even higher, still clutching mine as if for dear life. But he was practically ripping my shoulder out of its socket. Plus, I could really smell his armpit. It was like he was trying to smash my face into it. Then I felt his right arm, now smack over my butt, pushing me farther into the pit.

"Under, Rory. Go under my arm. I'm twirling you, silly girl!"

Oh. An underarm turn. I tried to cross one foot over the other so as to make a turn to the right, but his wrist was grabbing mine too hard.

"Um, ah, could you just let loose on my wrist a bit so I can turn?" I mumbled into his armpit. But he couldn't hear me. He kept pushing. "Um, can you let go of my wrist and I'll turn under you," I tried a little louder. I was starting to feel a bit suffocated. "Philip?" I tried to shake my wrist.

Then suddenly I felt myself being pulled down the opposite direction. His hand that had been on my butt was now wrapped all the way around my waist and was pulling me toward the floor. Now his right hand, instead of trying to twist my wrist, was pushing down.

"Stick your leg up!" he shouted.

"What?"

"Diiiiip!"

I then realized the music had ended. He wanted a dramatic ending dip. I turned to the side as much as I could and lifted my right foot slightly off the floor, terrified of trusting him with my whole weight.

"Awesome!" he shouted when I did my little mangled kick, which was wide out, since I knew if I kept my legs close together, I'd have less balance.

Meaning, I had my legs spread awkwardly in the middle of the dance floor. I couldn't imagine how truly ridiculous I must have looked. And I was sure my pink underwear was clearly on view.

"Hey man, I'll take over now," I heard James say with a nervous laugh. "Seriously man, though, thanks for helping out."

"What? No prob, dude!"

I felt myself being pushed from behind and pulled from the front. I was never so happy to feel both heels solidly on the ground, feel my hand in James's.

But the first face I saw after I'd been pulled to my feet wasn't James's. My focus shot straight through him to the one standing behind him. It was the dancer. He was dancing with Cheryl, Mitchell's wife. Her back was to me, and over her shoulder I could see his face. I caught him looking back at me. His eyes pierced mine with such intensity I had to catch my footing. Had he just seen me dancing with Philip like a complete idiot? I felt my face burn. I must have looked like a tomato.

The next song was another Sinatra--"My Way." The beat was a slow waltz. James held me close to him and shifted his weight from side to side. I followed his body but couldn't stop watching the dancer as he led Cheryl around the floor, rising and falling so elegantly to the rhythm. You could tell she didn't have dance training by her loose frame and broken lines, yet he made her look so graceful and polished. It was like he was able to guide her and teach her just by holding her in his arms and escorting her around the ballroom.

"Sorry about that," James said, stepping on my foot.

"Oh, it's okay." I laughed back. My high-heeled sandal was open-toed and my big toe throbbed a bit. But I was used to shaking off such pain. "Let's try again." I held out my hands and stepped back toward him. Right then, the dancer and Cheryl glided past us, and my eyes again locked with dancer's. Again, I felt a jolt of electricity charge up through my spine, making me weak-kneed. Why did he keep looking at me, and with such seriousness? Did I make that much of a fool of myself dancing with Philip?

"Honey?" James said.

"What?" That came out more snappish than I intended.

"What's wrong, Rory?" James stopped moving and backed away a bit to look in my eyes.

"Sorry," I said. "I just didn't hear you."

"Okay." He chuckled. "I just said I hope you're having a good time. You've been quiet all night. This is such a nice hotel. I mean, it's The Beverly Hilton, where the Grammy parties are held. The firm went all-out."

"You know I get nervous sometimes, at these kinds of things. But, yes, I'm definitely having a good time."

He sighed deeply. "You're just as good as these people, Rory. You graduated from law school too. A good one, even if it wasn't Stanford. You really deserve to have more self-confidence. You're so beautiful and smart, Rory. I'm serious."

His voice was tinged with irritation, which made me all the more uneasy. I hated it when he got annoyed with me, which seemed to be happening increasingly often. I'd been nervous ever since I moved to the West Coast and started law school. I thought it would get better in L.A., but practicing law was even more nerve-racking. James was a couple years older; he'd gone to Stanford with my sister, Jacqueline. I met him through her. He'd kind of taken me under his wing and made law school all the easier to get through. He really helped me through, calming me and giving me confidence before exams and mock oral arguments. But that was then. Something had changed here in Los Angeles.

"Thanks. I'm sure it will go away." My stomach was getting queasy. I saw the dancer off in the distance, with a female partner. The next song was "Strangers in the Night," my favorite Sinatra after seeing Twyla Tharp's "Sinatra Suite."

"Should we do one more?" James asked, his arms still around me in a close hold.

I knew he didn't like dancing. He was awkward and I felt his discomfort.

I saw the dancer gracefully lift the hand of a woman sitting down, give her a gentlemanly nod, lead her to the floor. As he escorted her over to a position very close to us on the floor, our eyes locked once again. Again, the intensity sent shivers down my spine. I swallowed hard. Was I imagining it all?

"Yes, one more," I said, my eyes still fixed, just over James's shoulder, to the dancer. I felt self-conscious since James and I weren't doing any fancy moves. This time the dancer didn't whisk his partner all over the floor; he mainly stayed put where he was, doing a little box step with her. He briefly took his eyes from me and shone them down on her. I felt myself seethe with jealousy.

"You okay?" James said, moving his head around to make eye contact with me. "I just felt you clench."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," I said with a nervous laugh. It was ridiculous for me to be jealous. What was I feeling? I had a serious boyfriend and the woman the dancer was dancing with meant nothing to him. I breathed deeply and forced myself to calm down. At the end of the song, he twirled the woman a few times, then dipped her. She wasn't used to dancing and she got dizzy and nearly fell on the dip. Now I felt a little badly for her, and all the more ridiculous for being jealous. She laughed it off like a good sport.

"Okay, let's get some hydration," James said, leading me back to the table.

I whipped my head around so as not to lose eye contact with the dancer. His eyes remained on us as James pulled me away. But an older man approached him, pulling the arm of a young woman toward him, and the dancer averted his attention from me and spoke with the pair.

James rubbed my knee gently. "I didn't step on too many toes did I?"

"No, of course not. I'm totally fine," I said.

"I'm gonna go refill our champagne glasses," he said, reaching around my shoulder to give me a little squeeze, followed by a peck on the lips.

After he left, my eyes shot back to the dance floor. But now the dancer was nowhere to be found. Hmm, where had he gone? I had no one to talk to. Cheryl and Mitchell and everyone else at our table was either dancing or socializing. I didn't really know anyone here except James. And Philip, whom I didn't want to run into again tonight. I crossed my knees, and rocked myself a little to the music, gazing out at the crowd. It was peaceful, even if I was alone.

The music stopped. I looked for James. I couldn't see him in the throng surrounding the bar.

Fingertips lightly brushed my shoulder. I turned around, and looked straight into the eyes of the dancer. His gaze wasn't as intense now, but more beatific, radiant. My heart felt like it was going to beat right out of my chest. He said nothing but motioned to the dance floor. I nodded and rose, feeling weak-kneed.

I took his offered hand. His fingers felt silky, like he'd used some kind of expensive cream. I was so excited, my insides were turning to hot liquid. But what if I screwed up?

As we reached the floor, the drummer began a slow, sexy, snaky beat. The two back-up singers began snapping their fingers. The male lead singer stepped aside and let one of the female back-ups take the middle of the raised stage. The dancer led me smack to the center of the ballroom floor. Now I really couldn't screw up. Not that anyone would be looking at me in his presence, of course.

"Never know how much I love you," began the singer's voice, low and sultry. It was Peggy Lee's hyper sexy "Fever." Could there be a more apt song, I thought, given that my insides were seriously beginning to turn to molten lava?

The dancer wrapped his right arm around my back, gently but firmly pressing down on the bottom of my shoulder blade. He took my right hand in his, wrapping his long, solid, silky fingers over mine. He held me close and with his strong fingers on my back, managed to guide me exactly where he wanted me to go, which was currently to my right, in a box step similar to the one he'd led the other woman.

I couldn't look at him now, fearing I'd swoon. Plus, his face was quite close to mine. But I could feel his warm, cinnamon breath on my neck. His body smelled of musky aftershave and fresh night air. He must have been outside for a cool-down after all that hot, sweltering dancing, I thought. I wondered if he'd been with his partner. If they were romantic partners as well. I couldn't detect any feminine scents on his body.

He slowly raised his left arm and pushed ever so slightly with those long fingers of his right hand into my shoulder blade, leading me gently, subtly into an underarm turn. I shifted my weight as far to my toe as possible, making my turn lighter and faster. I turned right as the woman sang "Fever," and I made the turn as truncated as the word. I felt the lacy bottom edges of my skirt fly. I felt sexy. But I returned a little too fast to him, arriving back in close hold a little before the beat. I'd gotten caught up on the woman's seductive rendition of the lyrics, and on the sexiness of feeling the air under my skirt, and his strong right arm on my back, guiding me to him.

"Sorry," I said, my voice breaking. When I looked into his eyes, he had this very sly, devilishly sexy smile on his face, which shot a spark of electricity down my spine and caused me to blush so badly I had to look away.

He led me into another turn, and turned me again with a flick of his left wrist. He turned me again on the "Fever." But this time he kept rotating his wrist, indicating for me to make several rotations.

Whoa.

He must have whipped me around five times during the singer's whisper of that one little word. I had to remember how to spot, lest I get dizzy. The first thing I found to focus on was a little line of the tattoo I glimpsed peeking out from under his black undershirt. Spotting and spinning came back to me surprisingly easily. But I couldn't stop from wondering just what was hidden under that shirt. The design of the tattoo, the biceps, the pecs, the abs.

Stop it, Rory!

I felt myself turn crimson. My eyes began to water. What was wrong with me?

But no time to think about all that because now he was turning me more, again and again. But this time his body was rotating all the while, so he had me turning around him instead of in the same place. I had to really concentrate, focus on the outer line of that ever-so-enticing tattoo. I felt my skirt flying, along with my long hair. We were going faster and faster, creating a wind tunnel around us. We were like a tornado! As much as I didn't want to lose focus on that tattoo, I bent my head back to stabilize my equilibrium as I spun around him. But wait, I was also in his arms, as I could still feel those long, strong fingers of his right hand breezing along, right underneath my shoulder blade. He wasn't going to let me fall even if I did get dizzy.

Suddenly, he stopped the turn and whisked me toward him, wrapping his arms around me and holding me closely. But just briefly--way too briefly--as he lowered me right down into a deep dip. I lifted my leg behind him, raising it as high as it would go, pointing my toe to extend my leg line. The dip was so deep my outstretched fingers nearly graced the floor. He pulled me right up as the song ended.

Applause filled the room. What was going on? I got my footing and looked out. Everyone was looking at us, clapping.

I was in shock. I had no idea people were watching. I felt so silly. The dancer wrapped his strong right arm around my waist. I could feel him bending, his hand guiding me down into a bow. I made it into a little curtsy. People applauded even more loudly. I even heard some whistles.

The next song began and I wanted so badly to continue dancing with him. I looked into his eyes. He wore that same sly smile, sending another volt of electricity straight to my belly, filling it with liquid heat.

"Hey, you made James's Rory into a real dancer!" said another man, patting the dancer on the shoulder, a bit hard in my opinion. "You gotta teach my assistant here some of those moves." He pushed a blushing, petite blonde toward the dancer.

The dancer nodded politely and took her by the hand, giving me one last nod, accompanied by that same crooked, somewhat even devilish smile. I pivoted and rushed back to the table, afraid I'd wobble and fall if I didn't sit soon.

"Honey, that was amazing," James said, handing me my glass of champagne.

"I can't believe I remembered how to do that."

"That's right. I keep forgetting you've danced before."

"James! I could have never done all that if I hadn't!"

He chuckled and shrugged. I was flattered by the compliment but a little disappointed he'd forgotten I'd once been a dancer, pre-law career. Or a dance student, anyway.

After the next song ended, the emcee directed everyone to sit. "Okay, it's time for the raffle. As you all know, everyone's been entered to win a grand prize package at Infectious Rhythm studio in Hollywood, where our wonderful performers are from."

Raffle? This was news to me.

"The prize consists of ten private lessons for two, and one month of unlimited group classes, a value of over fifteen hundred dollars," he continued.

The crowd erupted with "ooohs" and "aaahs."

"I'm just going to pick a name out of this box here. Drumroll, please." The band, who'd now returned, did as he asked. "The winner is..." he said, picking a piece of paper out of the box. "James Prescott!"

Oh my. I hadn't even had time for my heart to race during the drumroll since I hadn't known about the prize. But now that my boyfriend was called the winner I felt like it was going to beat right out of my chest.

"Well, they've certainly chosen the most two-left-footed person here. So it'll be put to good use," he joked, standing.

***

That night, back in James's high-rise apartment on Wilshire Boulevard, I couldn't stop thinking of the dancer, or when we were going to sign up for our lessons. The whole thing was already beginning to feel like a dream.

After I washed off my face and took out my contacts, I surveyed myself in the bathroom mirror. So little of the ballerina in me was left. But some of it remained. I still wore my honey blonde hair long, to mid-back, perfect for pulling up into a big bun. Law school had definitely packed a few pounds on me, but I wasn't overweight, and I still had long dancer legs. The C-cup too-large-for-ballet breasts that had definitely contributed to my teenage eating disorder would forever haunt me. I looked at my face. My large brownish green eyes framed by long eyelashes and my fleshy cheeks still gave me a girlish ballerina look even though I was now twenty-five. I raised my arm. I still had a little muscle tone. But not enough. I certainly looked nothing like that taut-bodied, impeccably groomed female dancer, who was all sexy woman.

"Now you really seem zoned out. What's up?" James said as I returned to the bedroom.

"Nothing. I'm fine." I could hear my own voice. I said that with no conviction whatsoever. For some reason I didn't want to talk about how I felt about dancing, how I'd been momentarily transported into another universe. Even though he was my boyfriend of over two years now, it was a private thought, one I didn't wish to share with him. But he seemed to want some kind of explanation. "I guess I was just so taken with those dancers. Didn't you think they were...just...amazing?"

"I guess," he said with a shrug. "I mean, they were just dancers."

This was the reaction I feared I'd get. I hadn't talked about my childhood dream much around James. It wasn't part of who I'd become, who I was now. "I was just really impressed with them. That stuff looked hard."

"Yeah, well, the firm paid for pros. So they should have been impressive."

I felt childish, and then embarrassed. I was an adult now, a lawyer, in a serious relationship with another lawyer.

But as James turned off the light and began to kiss me, I saw the dancer's eyes, felt his pupils pierce mine, felt his hand firmly but gently on my back, guiding me, sending more electric currents from my chest to my belly. I really couldn't wait for those lessons. 
Chapter 2

I didn't sleep well. I had a dream that my dad was still alive and he'd come to see me perform with the North Carolina Ballet. Except I wasn't performing because I'd moved to Los Angeles and become a lawyer. I had to tell him this and I knew he'd be upset. And I couldn't believe I had to upset him. I loved him so. The dream was so real. I sat up in bed, shaking. When I saw James asleep beside me I realized it wasn't real. I lay back down and tried to calm myself. But then I couldn't get the dancer from last night out of my mind. Made me feel guilty because, if I was honest with myself, I was attracted to far more than just his dance skills. The man was fire, passion, sex. The insides of my thighs were beginning to get wet just remembering him. Oh my gosh, stop that, I told myself. My boyfriend of the past two years was sleeping beside me. What was wrong with me?

Although it was early, I got up anyway. It was Friday, the day after the holiday party, and James had told me he'd planned to sleep in. Everyone at his firm would be. I might as well get to work, I thought, though I didn't have a lot to do yet at my newish job. It was a tiny firm and I found myself spending much of the day walking back and forth among the few partners' offices asking if anyone needed any research. It wasn't at all what I'd expected law firm life to be like. I managed to shower and get into my suit--we had no such thing as casual Friday despite the smallness of the firm--without James so much as stirring. He was out cold from all that champagne.

I actually had a decent drive to work. L.A. traffic became nightmarish after about six thirty in the morning, but before that the city was quite lovely. I drove my silver Prius down what people called the high-rise canyon in the Westwood section of Wilshire, where we lived, and took Wilshire all the way to my downtown office. Whoa, I got there in only twenty minutes. It usually took well over an hour when I left at my regular time. I parked, and took my time getting my vanilla latte and Greek yogurt and granola parfait from the Starbucks down the street. I settled at my cubicle and pulled up the legal analysis memo I'd finished yesterday for my main boss, Gunther, an overworked, somewhat curmudgeonly man in his late forties, whom I was struggling to get along with. Even though I'd finished the memo yesterday, I decided to do a spell-check and verify the case citations one more time, seeing as how I had nothing else to do.

I'd finished that little project in all of an hour, and was beginning to twiddle my thumbs waiting for the partners to come in when Gunther stormed through the front door.

"I see you're in early. You got my message, then?" he said in a huff, passing my office without even looking at me, litigation bag on wheels trailing behind him, crashing into the walls as he flew into his office. It was obvious he was talking to me since there was no one else there. Crap, I hadn't checked my messages. I was so caught up in the events of last night, I hadn't even looked at my phone since I'd left the office for the party.

"Ah..." I began, fiddling for my phone in my bag.

"You didn't get it?" he yelled from down the hall. "It doesn't matter," he continued when I hesitated. "Just get down here. Now."

Typical Gunther. I grabbed the memo, along with a pen and legal pad and hurried down the hall after him. "Here's the memo," I said, handing him the stapled-together pages.

"What?" he said, frowning. "Oh, whatever." He grabbed the papers from my hand and literally tossed them behind him, straight to the floor. "Well, if you would have checked your message you would know that I got assigned a pro bono case last night by the court."

I swallowed. Note to self: always check messages last thing you do before going to bed and first thing after waking up in the morning. No more letting insanely hot ballroom dancers mess with your mind.

"I can't possibly handle it with all I have on my plate right now," Gunther continued. "So I need you to take it over for me."

What? Take it over completely? But I didn't say that; I simply sat before him open-mouthed. Nobody here had ever given me anything very serious before and now I had my own case? I was excited but nervous. It couldn't be too serious. I'd just passed the bar; I had only a few months' experience.

"You need to go to Compton today to talk to the guy. That's where he's being held. He's poor and can't make bail, so he's in a holding facility till trial. He was already arraigned. Former lawyer had some kind of emergency, so I got assigned. Here's the case file." Gunther reached into his litigation bag and handed me a folder.

"Um, Compton?" I was pretty new to L.A. I still didn't know the city very well. I knew Compton was a not-so-good area. Fortunately I had a GPS. But Compton was a big place. "Where...?"

"Shit, I keep forgetting how new you are at this. It's a criminal case so he's in the pens in the criminal courthouse there. Honestly, Rory, if you would have checked your messages, you'd have been prepared for this. I explained his case on your voicemail last night. Check the messages before you go. And read the file."

"Yes, thank you, sir," I said, nodding. "I'll do my best..."

"Go along. You have a lot to do," he said with a flick of his hand. He was now engrossed in paperwork on his desk and didn't look back up at me. I returned to my office, opened the folder, and checked my voicemail.

I listened to the messages--he'd left four, all saying the same thing--and read over the paperwork as quickly as I could, seeing as how I had to get to Compton--wherever that was--sometime today. The client's name was Patrick Warren and he was charged with violating an order of protection by calling his estranged wife on the phone and yelling at her, cursing and saying things she didn't understand. She'd filed for divorce, and for the protective order, after repeated encounters with him during which he yelled nonsensical things at her in a threatening tone and used lots of profanity. He never physically hurt her but she was scared he might. Her sister and mother were with her when he called. They were the only witnesses. His phone records indicated he did place a call to her landline.

After I'd read through everything, I returned to Gunther's office. He didn't seem to see me at the door, focused as he was on his computer. I noticed my memo was still on the floor behind his desk. Though the door was open, I knocked.

"What is it, Rory?" he said without looking up, apparently knowing I was there.

Was he just going to ignore me till I went away if I hadn't knocked, I wondered? "Um, yes. I read, I read over everything..." Could I please stop stuttering? This man had made me nervous with his shortness ever since I met him.

"And...?" He sounded annoyed.

"And, um, I just wanted you to know I'm off to Compton now."

"Good," Gunther said with a snicker. "You didn't need to stop by and tell me that, Rory."

"I just wanted to ask if there were, you know, any specific things I was to ask him or tell him?" I figured I should ask him about the charges in general in order to craft a defense but I wasn't sure of all the procedural things an attorney had to go through with a client at the beginning of a case. I'd expected Gunther to go through it all with me.

Gunther finally looked up at me, a deepening frown etching the outline of his face.

"What do you mean? You do what you always do at the beginning of a case. You find out as much information as you can. Did you really read the whole file?"

"Yes, yes, I just...this is my first time doing this, sir."

He grunted and shook his head. "Just ask him everything you need to know to represent him effectively." His eyes returned to his computer screen, indicating he was done with me.

I was thrilled to be getting my own case. I just thought I would get more assistance as a newbie. My closest friend from law school, Maya, was working at the Public Defender's Office in Oakland. Thus far, she'd only gotten to watch the lawyers handle the cases, and only misdemeanors at that. I was just being thrown into it. Well, it's good experience, I told myself. Great experience, actually. I just hoped I handled everything correctly.

I looked up the address of the criminal courthouse in Compton and typed it into my GPS. The area didn't look that bad. Of course, I took the freeway, not surface streets. So I really wasn't getting a significant view of the neighborhood.

When I arrived, there was a long line, comprised mostly of black and Latino women and children. I took my place at the end. Dressed in a navy suit and matching leather pumps, and carrying a briefcase, I received more than a few up and down looks.

After waiting fifteen minutes, the line seemed to be going nowhere. I needed to see our client today. I wondered what I would put for my billable hours for the day. I'd spent considerable time driving, and now waiting in line. I withdrew a stack of papers from my briefcase and began to reread them, trying to make the best use of the wait.

"Ma'am?"

I looked up to see a security guard standing before me. "Yes?"

"Are you here for a personal visit?"

"Oh no!" I laughed nervously, then immediately regretted it since that's exactly what everyone else in this line was doing. "I mean, I'm here for a client. I'm his law...yer." Could I sound more unconfident?

Get it together, Rory.

"You don't need to wait in this line. This is for family and friends. There's where you need to be." She pointed to an entrance marked "court personnel." I'd seen it but I wasn't court personnel.

"But I don't have a court I.D. or anything," I said.

"It's for everyone here on official business," she said, walking away.

I felt stupid. I clearly had "newbie" written all over my face. But the people in line had more serious problems than I did. I promptly put the papers back into my briefcase and breezed through the official entrance.

The guard led me down a long hallway, then through a door that opened into a small room with two metal chairs sitting across from a window covered with metal bars.

"I'll be right outside," he said with a serious look that unnerved me a bit.

"Patrick Warren!" A guard screamed from the other side of the gated partition. "Warren! Patrick Warren!" he called out again.

Out of the darkness, I saw a small, shriveled man shuffle toward me, his hands front-handcuffed together. He slowly sat down on the other side of the gate without looking at me. He appeared much older than his forty years. His gray-streaked hair looked like it hadn't been washed for the better part of a month and was completely unruly, scraps of it covering his eyes. Small-boned as he was, he had big knotty, boxer-like hands. Slowly, his small dark eyes peeked out from his greasy strands of hair with unadulterated anger and contempt. I hoped not for me.

"Hi, Mr. Warren. I'm Rory Laudner from Gunther Vanderson's office. We're your assigned attorneys."

He said nothing. I looked into his eyes, and realized they were staring not at me, but straight through me. It was odd and unsettling. Like he didn't see me.

"Well, um, I'm here to prepare for trial," I continued. "I mean, if you decide you want to do that. We can also enter a plea bargain if the D.A. gives us a good offer. But we'll cross that bridge later. First, I need you to tell me what exactly happened on the afternoon of August 24, when you allegedly called your estranged wife."

He continued to stare through me. His lips began to quiver. But he said nothing.

"Mr. Warren?"

He began to frown, and his frown grew more intense. Good, at least some reaction.

"Mr. Warren? I need you to talk to me about your case so I can help you," I tried again.

His frown deepened further, but a sparkle of thought flashed in his eyes. "You help me." He said these words slowly, enunciating each syllable. He looked straight ahead, still not at me. Then he burst out laughing, and shook his head.

What?

"Yes, as your attorney, I'm here to help," I said, very confused by his behavior. I placed his file on the table in front of me, thinking this would make my role somehow more evident to him.

"What's that?"

"It's your file, Mr. Warren."

"My file?" He looked both confused and suspicious.

"Yes. It lists the charges against you." I was confused as to his confusion.

"My file. You have my file. Yeah, I'm sure you do. And that tells you everything, does it." He said this more as a statement than a question. He was still talking really slowly, enunciating everything. He smirked. He definitely seemed suspicious of me.

"Um, it has a list of witnesses and the evidence against you. But no, it definitely doesn't tell me everything. That's why I'm here--"

"Those are lies, all lies," he shouted, pounding his fist on the table, which made me bounce in my seat.

"So you didn't make the phone call?" I said, trying to hide my now quivering voice.

"The whole damn thing is one big lie!" he shouted, again beating his fist on his side of the table.

"Everything okay in there?" asked the guard on the other side of the door.

"Yes, thank you," I stuttered. Okay, let's start again, I told myself, taking a deep breath. "Mr. Warren, they've produced your phone records that show you made a call to a number listed as hers. If you're telling me you didn't, do you have any idea how this is on your phone record?"

All I got in response was more laughter and head-shaking. I really didn't know what to do. He wasn't being at all logical or reasonable, to put it mildly.

"Okay, why don't we start at the beginning. Why don't you tell me about your wife. About your relationship."

He continued to shake his head and laugh. Until anger apparently overcame him and he shouted again. "Lies!"

I flinched again at the suddenness of his raised voice. I would need to learn to control my body language around him. I didn't want him, or anyone else, to think I was scared. "So more than one lie? Specifically what is a lie, Mr. Warren? Did you not call her at all that day?"

"No! No!" He pounded, now on the bar separating us.

I wasn't sure if he was just screaming that word or answering my question.

The door opened behind us. "Warren, you need to stop that shouting and pounding or your visit with your lawyer is terminated," the guard said.

But now Mr. Warren was back to laughing and head-shaking.

"You hear me, Warren?"

No response.

The guard snickered as if he'd been through this before, and backed through the door, closing it behind him.

"We were talking about your wife. Did you call her that day?" I continued.

"You're not listening! None of you listen! He gave her drugs. He drugged her and then he raped her!"

"Wait, what? I'm sorry, Mr. Warren, I don't know anything about a rape or drugs. That's not in your fil..." I didn't want to set him off by mentioning the file again.

"Stop talking about a fuckin' call. What is it with you fuckin' people! You look past the most egregious facts to the side issues." Now he was talking much more quickly, and with a slight Southern accent I hadn't noticed before.

I took a breath to calm myself. "You're saying you called her but it wasn't to threaten her. It was about her being raped and drugged? Or are you saying you didn't call her at all? I don't understand what you're telling me, Mr. Warren."

He shook his head and sneered, looking off in the distance. His eyes seemed to grow more vacant whenever he looked into the distance.

"I'm asking because we will contest whichever piece of evidence they've presented that you say is a lie. I just need to be clear on which pieces of evidence--"

He burst out laughing again. "Yeah, that's a good one. You go ahead and contest," he said, slapping the bar again. Suddenly, his eyes opened widely. It seemed like he was looking at something behind me. "No, no, no," he whispered.

I turned around, thinking the guard had come back in without me hearing. But it wasn't him. There was no one there.

"No, I can't. No, don't. Please."

"Mr. Warren, who are you talking to?"

But he just continued saying "no" and "please don't."

"Mr. Warren, have you ever seen a psychiatrist or a psychologist?"

Now he looked straight at me, eyes piercing mine, widening, seeming to fill with fear. He began scratching his head vigorously. So vigorously I was afraid he'd draw blood.

"Mr. Warren, please stop..."

"I am not crazy," he said very slowly again, Southern accent gone. "You're just like them...you're just trying to get rid of me. Just like them." He took his hands from his head and grabbed the bars.

I was right: there was a bit of blood under his fingernails. He had drawn blood from scratching so hard.

Suddenly he began to shake the bars. "Please, please," he said to me as his shaking grew more intense. "Please." Now he seemed not angry, but truly scared.

"That's it, three strikes, Warren. Time's over," said the guard, bursting into the room.

"Oh, no. Please, I need more time with him," I said to the guard.

"I'm sorry. This is for your safety. He's violating the rules, miss."

"But he didn't hurt--"

"Time's over. Sorry."

A female guard came up behind Mr. Warren and began pulling him up, forcefully. He didn't resist her as I'd expected him to.

"Mr. Warren, I'll call you. And write, okay. Please answer my messages," I called out.

But his body was now droopy and doll-like and his eyes were deep, seemingly in another thought. It was as if he didn't see me; as if he'd given up struggling. The guard pulled his limp body down the hall.

I drove back to the office, flummoxed. I had no idea what to make of our client, other than that he might well be mentally ill. I couldn't imagine trying to communicate with him again.

When I got to the office, I tried to see Gunther, but his assistant told me he was in court for the rest of the day, and planned to go home straight from there. I called the holding facility to see if Mr. Warren had any medical records there or was receiving any medication. They said no to both.

I read more closely the wife's statements made to police when she filed the report. She said things were fine between them until several months ago when he began saying things that made no sense. Sometimes he even spoke in other languages she didn't understand. They separated, but he kept going to her new residence and bothering her. He never hurt her, but with each visit he seemed to be getting both more threatening and more nonsensical, by raising his voice and using profanity. She grew scared of him and sought the protective order. He had no criminal record, and no history of violence.

According to the first attorney's notes, Warren hadn't been seeing any doctors for any medical condition, and he had no living immediate family. He'd been fired from his job as a gas station attendant six months ago for repeatedly failing to show up for work without explanation. His boss said he'd been a good employee but suddenly became irresponsible, without explanation. I called the prior attorney's office. They said the attorney was on indefinite medical leave and everything known about the case was in the folder. I was on my own.

***

I walked into the restaurant, never so happy to see James. Certainly he'd de-stress me from my insane day. And we could talk about those ballroom lessons we'd won! My pulse began to steady the second he rose to greet me.

"Anywhere you like, guys," said the hostess with a dimpled smile.

"Lakers!" said James, walking toward a side table in the very raucous bar area filled with UCLA students.

Living in Westwood felt like still being in college, which was sometimes a good thing, sometimes a bad one. In this instance it was the latter. "Can we sit in the back room? It's a little quieter." I tried to emulate the hostess's sweet smile.

James looked in the direction of the large HD TV hanging over the bar with a forlorn expression. He really did love his sports.

"All right," he said, shrugging, without any hint of a smile.

"No, it's okay, we'll sit in here."

"You sure?" His face brightened.

I couldn't deprive him of his basketball. "Yep," I said, sliding past a group of bar-goers and scooting into a tiny booth. "So how was work?" I asked once we were seated. I had to shout over the crowd, which was why I hadn't wanted to sit here.

"Ugh, don't even ask. One of the big clients is leaving and we're closing out a case. Tomorrow's going to be a nightmare..."

"Oh, you're going in?" I was a little dejected. After today, I was hoping we might be able to start those dance lessons over the weekend.

"Of course, Rory. When have I not had to go in on a Saturday at this job?" he snapped.

It was true. Right about the time I moved here, he switched from a big firm to this smaller one that specialized in entertainment law, thinking it would be more interesting and the hours wouldn't be as bad. But so far the latter projection had been very off.

"I know," I said under my breath, trying to hide my disappointment by concentrating on my menu.

"Hey, you guys!"

I looked up from my menu to see bouncing toward us a petite bubbly blonde waitress with wide-set blue eyes, full, pouty lips, and a ski-jump nose, who I figured for an actress, or a UCLA student, or both.

"Hey, how are you!" James laughed, completely changing his tone.

"What can I get you all to drink?" she said to him.

"Maker's Mark Manhattan for me."

"With a cherry?" She giggled.

"Um...yeah!" he said laughing with her.

She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, without saying anything.

"Pomegranate margarita," I said.

"Get those for you right away!" she boomed and took off.

"Do you know her?" I asked him.

"What? Who? Oh damn." He scowled at the TV.

"It just seemed like she knew you. I don't remember seeing her before. But you and your friends come here more often, so..." I decided to let it go. He was too involved with the game and whatever bad thing had just happened, anyway. I returned to the menu.

"Here you go," the waitress said, bouncing up with our drinks.

"That was fast!" James easily took his eyes from the TV to look at her.

She smiled. "You guys have a chance to look at the menu yet? Or you want me to give you a little time?"

"I think we're ready," he said without looking at me. I usually didn't take long to decide though, and I had been looking at the menu for a while now.

"Lemme guess, the rock shrimp? Or the braised ribs?"

So he did know her, I thought.

"You read minds well!" he laughed. "I'll have the ribs."

"I try." She giggled. "And you?" she said to me.

"Um, the cedar plank salmon."

"Great! Thank you!"

Gosh, I wished I were that happy. Or could pretend to be, anyway. James's attention was fixed on the TV again. I decided to watch too. I wasn't interested but it looked like it was almost over. Then we could talk.

When the game stopped for a commercial, James took a sip of his drink, placed both hands palm down on the table and turned his attention to me. "You seem quiet tonight."

"You were watching the game. I didn't want to bug you."

"I don't have to watch every second, Rory." He laughed. "You can talk."

"Oh, okay. Well, I guess I'm just tired from the day."

"Tired? You get something compelling for once?"

"Compelling, and insane." He knew how bored I generally was there. I told him all about the Warren case, and about meeting Mr. Warren. The game came on again about a quarter of the way through my story, but he insisted I continue. He looked back and forth between me and the screen while I spoke.

"So just petition the court to have him examined by a shrink," he said, shrugging, when I finished. "If he's officially nuts, you can get relieved as counsel." He made everything sound so simple.

"Yeah, but what if Gunther doesn't want that? He's officially the attorney on the case."

"Fuck Gunther. If he told you to handle it, you handle it and if you do something he doesn't like, it's his fault since he wouldn't talk to you."

"Yeah, but...what happens to Warren if we get relieved as counsel?"

"Who cares?" he said again, shrugging. "He'll probably be civilly committed until he's deemed sane enough to stand trial."

Civilly committed? It sounded horrible. My uncle--my father's brother--spent most of his life in a mental institution. My mom would never let any of us talk about him, or visit him. I remembered her often warning my dad he was "mental" too. They fought a lot. I didn't even know what it was all about, just remembered their loud, angry voices. Especially hers. When I had my bout with anorexia she'd warned me I'd turn out like my uncle, locked up--or worse--if I didn't fix myself. She'd say I was my father's daughter, meaning I'd gotten my mental instability from him. That was after he died, and her words always stung.

"How often do they re-examine him, then. I mean, to see if he's better?" I asked.

"I don't know," James said snappishly. "At that point it's not your problem, Rory."

"Well, I mean, it would be. He's my client--" I couldn't just dismiss someone--especially someone whom the court assigned to my care--so easily.

"Rory, you're not a social worker. You're getting your job confused..." He whipped his head back to the TV. "Yeah!" he cried out, pumping his fist in the air. His gaze remained on the TV for a few more moments before returning to me. "What were...oh yeah, just have him examined, honey. If he's insane he'll be held incompetent to stand trial and will be civilly committed. Easy."

Our plates arrived with perfect timing. James was too focused on the game and I wasn't sure he'd understand, anyway. He was so lawyerly, so logical. He knew I'd had a small bout with anorexia--actually it was just anorexia spectrum disorder, not full-blown anorexia--but I was sure I'd never told him about my uncle. I'd never had a reason to. Maybe I'd just call my friend, Maya, later about the case.

We pretty much ate in silence until the game ended. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the waitress kept looking over at us. She'd smile suggestively, narrow her gaze and lift her chin at James. Every time I glanced at him, though, he seemed focused on the game. She was probably just making sure we didn't need anything and any flirtatiousness was simply in my mind.

The game finally ended. The Lakers won, so James was happy.

"In the mood for some dessert?" The waitress seemed to return the second James pushed his plate away.

"Ummm..." He smiled at her.

His dimples always killed me. So boyish, so charming.

"Oh come on. Pecan pie!" She raised her eyebrows as if she were talking about more than just food.

"Okay, you convinced me!" He flashed her his dimples again and I was momentarily jealous.

"Coming up!" She took his plate, then reached for mine. Half of my salmon was still left. She looked up at me quizzically.

"I'll just have the rest to go? I'm not very hungry," I said with a polite smile. She nodded and was off in a flash.

"You're not eating much," he said.

I shrugged. "Not really hungry."

"Rory, you haven't seemed yourself lately. You just seem... I don't know, somewhere else."

Last night I'd been unable to concentrate on anything but the dancer. Today I'd been unable to concentrate on much beside my interaction with Mr. Warren. I guess I had been a bit out of it. But he gave me a great segue into talking about the dance lessons. "I think I'm just stressed," I said. "I really need to detox. Which is why...I think I could really use those dance lessons right about now." I raised my eyebrows and smiled hopefully.

"Oh honey." His tone made it clear bad news was coming.

I straightened my back and braced myself.

"I gave the package to Cheryl and Mitchell. Cheryl really enjoyed dancing with that guy and she's home all day and bored. And Mitchell, is, you know, my supervising partner. We have such busy lives." He laughed. "We'd never have time. So I hope you don't mind I gave it to someone who had better use for it."

I felt my insides collapse, like someone had just punched me in the stomach.

He continued chatting as he ate his pecan pie. But I couldn't hear anything he said. The emcee's words--a fifteen hundred dollar value!--kept playing in my mind. I couldn't afford that on my salary.
Chapter 3

I shook awake and sat up abruptly, letting the covers fall to my waist. For a second I couldn't catch my breath. Oooh, bad nightmare. Well, not that there was any other kind. I was having dinner at the same restaurant where James and I had been last night, but with my mom and sister, Jacqueline. I was eating the same food--salmon with roasted potatoes and asparagus. But mom was screaming and crying. I couldn't make out what she was saying. It was like a silent movie. I could only see the angry, hurt grimace on her distorted face. She grabbed at my plate and took a fistful of salmon, completely destroying the upscale restaurant's aesthetically arranged dish. What a low-class rube, I thought, embarrassed. Suddenly she reached toward me with that fistful. I felt someone behind me, prying open my jaw. The hands belonged to my sister. I felt the salmon enter my mouth. But now it tasted like peanut butter. I felt myself choking. I panicked. I screamed but to no avail.

Somehow I managed to escape and found myself running down a long hall. It was the hallway in my childhood house in North Carolina. The walls were lined with photos from my ballet classes over the years. In one of them, I stood by a fountain in front of the Durham Center of the Performing Arts. I wore my ballet costume from "Swan Lake" and I was doing my best arabesque. But I wasn't there to perform. We were going to see the North Carolina Ballet. I remembered the picture well. My dad had asked me to pose. Suddenly my sister peeked out from behind him, an angry look on her face. She had a peanut butter jar in her hand. She flew around Daddy and came running toward me, dipping her hand in the jar. I called for my father to help me. But I couldn't see him anymore; he'd left. She pried my mouth open and shoved her peanut-butter-y hand inside. I choked.

It took me several minutes to catch my breath. That had been such a fun performance, that North Carolina Ballet "Swan Lake." Daddy and I had gone alone. My sister wasn't there. The peanut butter incident had happened later. My mother had hysterically tried to feed me peanut-butter-covered saltines--a once-favorite snack of mine. Before ballet. Before my eating disorder, when I began freaking out over everything I put into my mouth. She was trying to help. But she'd nearly choked me in her haste. I had no idea what the peanut butter or the performance had to do with the salmon I'd eaten last night with James. I hadn't felt like I was choking last night. Thinking about the dream made me miss my father. I decided to stop trying to analyze it and get up.

James wasn't in bed. I eyed the clock. It was nine. He must have already gone to work.

I made my way to the kitchen and fixed myself a bowl of mixed strawberries and blueberries. My favorite breakfast made from fresh California produce. And of course it tasted nothing like peanut butter. Ugh, I had to get that dream out of my head.

I sat down at the computer and typed "Infectious Rhythm dance studio Los Angeles" into my Google search. Found him! A photo of my dancer and his partner lit up the screen. I clicked on the classes link. Wow, they offered so many different styles of dance: tango, foxtrot, swing, samba, rumba, salsa--the list went on. And there were several different levels and two different styles of each: international and social. I had no idea what the difference was. I had no idea ballroom was so extensive. And the studio looked gorgeous, and huge. Gleaming hardwood floors, a big chandelier. The website said no partner was needed to sign up for a class. Group classes were twenty dollars apiece or seventy dollars for a four-lesson course. That wasn't so bad--I could afford one. Weirdly, they didn't have any teacher names listed. So, I couldn't Google my dancer. Well, I'd find out about him, and take one of his classes, soon enough!

***

The studio was in the heart of the touristy area, on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, down the street from Grauman's Chinese Theater. It was in what appeared to be an urban mall, a few stories high with outdoor walkways and very close-together stores. I found the entrance to the garage and drove down about three stories, until the "full" signs ended and I could find a place to leave my car. James hated Hollywood, always said it was nightmarishly packed with cloying tourists. And cars.

I could see what he meant, but it was also exciting. The atmosphere was booming with energy. I took three escalators up to the main floor and walked around the perimeter of the Dolby Theater, where tourists were madly snapping photos. This was the theater where many premieres, as well as the Academy Awards, were held. I walked around the front of the mall to see more tourists waiting outside the Hard Rock Cafe while watching a group of break dancers perform their magic moves to a fun, pulsating beat. Down the block, I spied not one but two Johnny Depp impersonators, both dressed in Jack Sparrow attire. And of course there was Marilyn in the white dress that flew up over the subway grates in--which movie was it again? "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes"? "Some Like It Hot"?

"Double-decker bus, takes you to movie stars' houses!" shouted a young guy on my right waving fliers about. And to my left passed a drag queen wearing super-high-heeled red patent leather pumps and a red feather boa wrapped around her neck. She really whizzed by me in those shoes. Damn, if only I could walk like that in my work pumps.

And to the back, up the stairs, stood more tourists snapping photos of the famous Hollywood sign, which, to James's annoyed bemusement, was the first thing I did when I arrived here. Yeah, it was touristy. But so full of life.

I found a directory. It appeared the studio actually occupied three floors, and the entrance was on the first. I walked down the stone walkway, wended around the Dolby, and rounded the corner to see at the far end of the hall a glass door with the studio's name written above it in elegant cursive black lettering shadowed in scarlet. It looked Infectious!

I opened the door to a vast lobby with rows of benches cushioned with plush red velvet, where women were sitting changing their shoes, some drinking from paper cups, some chatting with each other. The women were various ages, sizes, ethnicities. Some looked up at me when I walked in, but most of them continued doing what they were doing. Two women and one man were sitting behind a long reception desk made of a really cool black and white swirled marble. There were large windows on two of the walls and the back opened into what looked like a long hallway. You could watch classes going on in the studios through the windows.

I sauntered up to the desk and joined a short line, while looking back and forth between the two open windows. Britney Spears's "Toxic" began blaring from the studio to my left.

A woman in her mid-twenties with jet black hair worn in a sleek asymmetrical bob held her right hand in the air as if about to conduct an overture. Instead she yelled out, "One, two, three, go," with a thick Russian-sounding accent. "Basic," she called out as people quickly jumped from left to right and back again. "Spin," she screamed, and women spun under their partners' arms, skirts flying.

Many of the women were wearing leotards and short, swingy skirts with either character shoes, like those worn for jazz dancing, or high-heeled open-toed sandals with a flexible-looking arch and toe that allowed them to point their toes. Wow, those stilettos were high. I couldn't imagine dancing in them.

"Jive walks!" the teacher hollered, and the women did these sassy little hip-swiveling walks around their men.

"Excuse me, are you next in line?" a woman asked, tapping me on the shoulder from behind.

"Miss? Can I help you?" said one of the women at the reception desk. I'd been so immersed in the class going on next door I hadn't even heard her calling me.

"Oh, yes," I said, approaching the desk. When I got there, I noticed under the cool marble counter was a three-shelf case enclosed in glass, which held an abundance of items for sale: sparkling jeweled headbands, bracelets, and wrist corsages; a section titled "Swarovski" showcased every manner, shape and color of small crystal, with a book open to a page illustrating a jewel-bedecked ball gown; a section contained DVDs and CDs on ballroom dancing; and, on the bottom shelf at the far end were several pairs of those crazy stiletto shoes.

"Are you interested in classes, or buying one of our items on sale?"

I heard harrumphing behind me. I turned to see the line had grown substantially since I came in. I couldn't help it. I felt like Cinderella. I'd been transported to another world.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I want to take a group class."

"Sure. You're a beginner, right? I haven't seen you here before."

"Yes, beginner."

I noticed on the back wall, right above her head, there was a large sign bearing, in bold black letters, all caps, the words, "TEACHER STUDENT FRATERNIZING STRICTLY PROHIBITED." Hmmm, seemed like they were serious about prohibiting that, whatever exactly it was. Students and teachers couldn't be friends, socialize with each other out of studio hours?

"We have several beginner classes starting next week. Let's see..." She fingered a pamphlet. "Salsa, rumba, samba, Argentine tango, standard tango, swing, hustle, waltz, foxtrot..."

Holy crap, I couldn't believe how many classes they offered. They must have had a bazillion rooms in the back and upstairs.

"Actually..." I looked over my shoulder at the crowd. Everyone was totally engaged in what they were doing--registering for classes, perusing crystals. No one cared about me and my silly little schoolgirl crush. "I was at The Beverly Hilton Thursday night and I saw this guy from your studio perform and, um, I was interested in, um..."

She started giggling. "Sasha. I mean, it could have been someone else, but...judging from your face, it was him." Her face started to redden a little as well.

Did this man have the same effect on all women? "Well, um, what's he teaching?"

At this she burst out in laughter and continued for a good several seconds. "I'm sorry," she finally said, catching her breath. "It's just that he's the national champion and a world finalist. He generally only teaches privates, with one very advanced group class per month. But you can't take that until you get to that level."

"So I'd need to take two classes before his, um, group class?"

"No, no, no! It doesn't work that way." Now she turned defensive. "There are three levels in each of the social-style classes and the international-style ones. You need to finish the social-style levels before advancing on to international in each dance. So, for example, he's teaching"--she fingered through the pamphlet--"gold-level rumba next month. So, you'd have to take level one social rumba and then get through the three social levels, and then take bronze and silver international rumba before advancing to his gold. They recommend spending three months in each level. And you can't advance to gold without teacher approval."

I added it up. If I took one class per month, starting at level one social rumba, and spent three months in each level, social and international, I wouldn't be able to take class with him for well over a year. My heart took a nosedive.

"But we have lots of great teachers who teach the beginner level." She narrowed her eyes as if challenging me to something.

"You mentioned something about privates?" I heard myself say, knowing full well I couldn't afford them.

She looked at me as if I'd just demanded her firstborn. "Well, those are usually for advanced students preparing for competition. And he has to approve you. And I'm pretty sure he's all full. I can check his schedule?"

"How much are they?" I said, under my breath. I hated looking poor but it couldn't be helped.

She smirked. "A hundred and twenty dollars per hour."

Ugh. Even more than I was expecting.

"Should I look at his schedule for you?"

"No," I said, deflated.

"The group courses are only seventy dollars for the month, and you get one per week. With a purchase of any four-week course, you get to come to all of the practice parties. We have a practice party every night for two hours. And there's a big one each Saturday night." Her smirk was gone. The corners of her mouth were turned up slightly. I could tell she felt sorry for me and was now trying to be nice. "Sasha and Xenia often perform at the Saturday night parties," she said, smile brightening and eyebrows raised.

"Okay," I said, softening. At least I knew where to find him. "What's that?" I motioned toward the class with the yelling teacher.

"I'm afraid that's Bronislava's gold-level jive, another class that's way too advanced." Her voice was tinged with pity.

I hated when people pitied me. I took a breath. "Okay, well then, maybe I'll just take the social rumba." It seemed if he was teaching some form of rumba, learning the basics would mean some kind of connection with him, however miniscule.

"Great! Mitsi's teaching it. She's really nice. You'll love her. I should also tell you that two four-week courses are discounted to one hundred and thirty dollars, three are one eighty, four are two hundred, and unlimited is two fifty. So, obviously the more classes you take, the better the deal."

I thought about it. The unlimited was definitely a deal. And I'd advance more quickly. But, no, I really didn't have that kind of money at this point. That would have to wait for my first raise. Assuming that day ever came.

Mitsi's social rumba would have to suffice for now. It met Monday nights at seven p.m., which was perfect--late enough for me to drive from work downtown and have time to warm up, and early enough that I'd probably be home before James. So I wouldn't necessarily have to tell him I decided to take a dance class despite him. Plus, it should make the first day of the work week less stressful and give me something to look forward to.

After leaving the studio, I found a little cafe in the area. I ordered a tuna sandwich and tea and whipped out my iPhone. I needed to know more about this man. I wondered why I hadn't seen him on any of the TV shows when he was way the hell better than any of the pros on those.

Just a search of "Sasha ballroom dancer" yielded over a hundred YouTube videos. Most of them weren't very good. They looked as if they'd been taken by a fan without authorization, at either a competition or a performance. But they were good enough to see that, no it wasn't just my imagination--he blew away everyone else on the floor. The way his hips moved, his speed, his fire, the way he took every line to its extreme and danced every movement full-out. He moved more quickly, more precisely and fluidly than anyone else. You didn't need to see details of his face or his body to see that, or to see his passion. I could so easily pick him out from the crowd, ant-sized though his body was on my tiny screen.

I learned his full name: Sasha Zakharov. His partner seemed only to go by her first name, Xenia. I wondered if that meant they were married. I found lots of photos of them in various dance poses, or standing atop podiums receiving medals. I also found several articles and interviews. But the interviews were in Russian and the articles in Russian, German, Italian, or a language I couldn't even decipher. They seemed to be champions and well known, but more in Europe than in the U.S. Between the studio and watching all the videos at the cafe, I stayed at the mall so long my parking bill was a whopping eighteen dollars.
Chapter 4

Before I left for work Monday morning, I packed a little dance bag with black ballet flats, ponytail holders and hair clips, a pair of yoga pants, a cute but comfy t-shirt with a pretty lace trim, and a light but warm pink ballet sweater in case the studio was cold. I placed a large bottle of water in the bag's side pocket. Driving to work, my stomach was aflutter with thoughts of the rumba class and the fact that I soon would be somewhere in the vicinity of Sasha.

I tried to get to work early, before Gunther left for court, but no such luck. His assistant said she expected him back around six thirty p.m. I had to leave by five thirty for my class, so I'd have to wait another day to talk to him about what to do regarding Mr. Warren.

I spent the day trying to call Mr. Warren and his prison counselor. Warren refused to speak to me, as I'd expected, and the counselor said Warren had specifically directed him not to give me any information, and I'd have to subpoena his records if I needed them so badly. I found an old subpoena in the database and used it to draft my own. But I wasn't about to file it without showing Gunther. I asked another partner if she could give me input in Gunther's absence, but she told me it was his case and I'd have to wait to speak with him.

***

I changed clothes and left the office at five o'clock, worried if I left later I wouldn't get to Hollywood in time. It didn't take me long to learn you never know what traffic will be like L.A., so you should always give yourself extra driving time if you can't be late to something. There wasn't a huge amount of traffic, so I arrived forty-five minutes early. I sat on one of the plush velvet-covered benches in the lobby and watched the class in the studio to the left. This time the teacher was a frustrated woman with an accent--Spanish, from the sound of it--trying to teach a tango class. It must be a beginner class, I thought. None of the couples were doing the same step. And many of the students were frowning and looking down at their feet.

"What is wrong? It is person. Is human being!" she yelled in a bewildered tone. "This!"

She approached one of the men. She stood very close to him and touched his forehead with hers, wrapping his arm around her so that he held her in a very close embrace. They were now cheek to cheek, rib cage to rib cage, separated only from the waist down, where she brushed her feet around his, moving cat-like. She was a beautiful mover, but I could see why the students were weirded out by the extremely close position. I would feel uncomfortable too rubbing faces and body parts like that with someone I'd just met. Unless of course it was Sasha.

"Hi, I'm signed up for rumba level one. Can you tell me where it is?" I said, approaching the receptionist as it grew closer in time to the beginning of class. The woman at the front desk was different from the one who'd helped me before.

"It's in 3F, upstairs," she said, after consulting a computer. "Here, take this." She handed me a map.

It was huge and the print was tiny in order to fit everything in. You practically needed a magnifying glass to read it. There were so many classrooms. "Thanks. Do I need to sign in or anything?"

"No, but just show your I.D. on your way into the classroom to the attendant."

I.D., what I.D.? My face must have revealed my thoughts.

"You do have an I.D., right?"

I shook my head.

"You signed up over the weekend?" she said.

I nodded.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes, mumbling something under her breath. Maybe the girl who signed me up was new. Maybe she didn't know the correct policy on advancement to class levels either, I thought hopefully.

I pondered that possibility, growing excited over advancing myself earlier, when a light suddenly flashed and the receptionist was up and running toward a large printer-looking machine. She pulled open a drawer, clanked around for several seconds, made some kind of punching sound with another machine, and all within seconds returned to me with a laminated card that bore a photo of me, mouth wide open, a mischievous thought in my eyes.

Great. Who all would see this?

I considered asking her for a do-over, but just then a bell dinged. The entire lobby seemed to be set into motion. Everyone who had been sitting on a bench got up and rushed to the hallway door, which burst open with people exiting, nearly bumping heads with those trying to enter. I decided to hold back a minute and wait for the stampede to calm down. Several people who'd walked into the lobby from the hallway, instead of leaving the studio, walked into one of the adjacent rooms. People exiting those rooms headed for the lobby. No one actually left the studio; everyone just changed classrooms. It felt like high school or college where you had only minutes to get to your next class.

I followed the herd of people walking down the hallway, and saw at the end of it a door held open by a man. It was a stairwell. I walked two flights up to the third floor, where there were four rooms. I couldn't see any numbers above the doors, so consulted my map, squinting to read the letters. I finally found my proper room and flashed my I.D. to the person checking people in, right as the music was starting. I looked around, saw an area off to the far side where people had tossed their bags, and added my purse and tote to the pile before finding space to stand on the crowded floor.

The teacher, Mitsi, stood in front of the class, a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall mirror behind her. She had platinum blonde hair with a pinkish tint that was cut into a bouncy bob. She was petite, and her small size, along with her large, long-lashed doe eyes, made her look about fifteen years old, though I knew she had to be older.

She didn't say a word, but simply swayed her hips to the slow beat of the music, from one side to the other, putting weight on the left foot, then transferring it to the right, but without picking up her feet. She looked around the room, watching our hips to see that we were emulating her.

It was a lot harder than it looked. I concentrated intently as she swayed from side to side doing a forward and backward rotation, making a kind of figure eight pattern with her whole pelvis. I tried to imitate her, but, judging by my image in the mirror, I wasn't doing it at all correctly; her movement looked way different. More grounded or something. And far sexier. Mine looked superficial, like I was imitating a girl trying hard to be sexy, shaking her behind, but to comical effect.

I looked around. There were several students who were really good, moving just like Mitsi. Some were almost there but not quite. And about a third of us were nowhere near. So I was in decent company. As I watched some of the good students, I felt the same inadequacy I'd often experienced in ballet, that made me feel I was a loser and couldn't do anything right. Okay, stop it, I told myself. Be easy on yourself. They were just more experienced. I wasn't an idiot.

I peeked down at my hips, and when I raised my head again, I couldn't find my reflection in the mirror. A tall red-headed woman now stood smack in front of me. I tried to move to the left, but the swaying left arm of the guy beside me whacked me on the right shoulder. I tried to move in the other direction but that space was even tighter. The girl on my right gave me a "don't you dare encroach on my space" look. The redhead was so focused on herself she seemed completely oblivious to my attempts to get even a tiny bit of mirror space.

Oh well, probably a good thing I can't see myself and get all self-conscious, I thought. I focused solely on Mitsi, trying to feel with my body what she was doing with hers.

"Okay, lets concentrate on the arms now," Mitsi said with a thick Brooklyn accent, which I didn't expect. "The movement is rooted in the rib cage, then flows through the shoulda, down to the elbow, then down through the lowa arm, and out through the fingas."

She looked around at our reflections, nodding. I still couldn't see myself, so I focused on her arms.

"Good, good. These are called cucharachas," Mitsi said. "Good for warming up. But now we'll partner up. Leaders behind me, followers in front."

A few people moved either in front or behind her. The rest of us stood still, confused looks on our faces.

"Gentlemen behind me, ladies in front of me," she clarified. "Unless you're an experienced lady who wants to learn the leader role, then behind me."

Several women--most of the ones I'd thought were good--walked behind her until we were evenly divided. It was now clear how many more women than men there were in the class.

Mitsi held her arm out. The redhead who'd been standing in front of me walked toward her. "We'll start with the basic. I'm the leader; Luna's the follower."

Mitsi put her right arm around the redhead's back. Hmmm, Luna hadn't seemed to me like one of the best in class. I wondered why Mitsi used her to demonstrate.

"The man's arm holds the lady's shoulder blade, and that's the shoulder blade up here guys, not the one down here!" She placed her hand on Luna's butt. Everyone laughed. "You don't want to know how many guys don't know what a shoulder blade is. And that's what you'll guide her with, okay, not your other hand. You can break a wrist that way!"

Philip from James's firm needed to be in this class, I thought.

Mitsi and Luna demonstrated a set of four steps in a box pattern, with a quick, quick, slow timing. "Everyone's got it, right?" she said after doing it once. "I know almost all of you have been here before."

I began to raise my hand in protest, but when no one else did, I quickly lowered it, feeling stupid. Did she not realize she'd never seen me before and I was new?

"Everyone find a partna." Mitsi pointed a remote at the iPod and the slow music returned.

A man who looked Indian and who wore cool, box-framed glasses standing opposite me smiled bashfully at me. I smiled back and walked toward him.

"I'm R..." I began to say but stopped when I noticed Luna out of the corner of my eye swatting at me with her left arm. My partner and I looked at each other, frowning.

"She wants you to move over a little bit," said a boyishly-dressed, short-haired female leader standing to my other side.

"Oh," my partner said with a nervous laugh.

We scooted toward the couple on our other side, but now we were quite close to them. I looked in the mirror. Luna and Mitsi had far more space than anyone else. Maybe that was because Mitsi wanted everyone to be able to see her for guidance? I had no idea. Luna was pretty. She had green, slanted cat-like eyes, full lips, and sharp cheekbones. She was either in her thirties or was far older and had had work done. I honestly found it hard to tell which with a lot of L.A. women. Even if people hadn't had any plastic surgery, everyone tended to work out a lot here and eat well so they tended to stay young-looking longer. Longer than people back home, anyway.

Mitsi took Luna in dance position. "One, two three, four, ONE," Mitsi said, indicating for everyone to start.

My partner started a little late, and then he moved too far to his front and stepped on the toe of my ballet flat.

"Oh sorry, sorry," he said, looking way too humiliated for what he'd done.

"It's okay," I said with a little laugh. I was thankful I'd worn closed-toed shoes, though. We did the box step three times and by the last, my toes really were starting to hurt, he'd stepped on them so much, apologizing each time. I told him not to worry about it; he was new, like me. He seemed like a nice guy. But I was glad when Mitsi told the ladies to rotate partners. I thanked the guy and he apologized again for all the missteps.

"Stop! I promise it's okay," I said, laughing again.

"Come to me next," said the boyish girl to my right. "You look nervous." She pulled me boldly into a close dance position.

I actually hadn't been. For once. "This is my first time," I said anyway.

"Well, don't be. Nervous, that is. I'm a good leader." She winked.

The music began. My new partner stepped toward me, before Mitsi had called out "ONE." I took a step back anyway.

"You're not following me," the girl said on the second beat. I actually was stepping on the beat of the music, at the same time Mitsi called out the numbers. My partner was a couple beats ahead. "You got to follow my lead, not Mitsi's. You're not dancing with her."

"Well, but, she's calling the beats--"

"Ow!"

I'd stepped on her foot as Mitsi called the fourth beat.

"I'm sorry, I thought she just called..."

"That's why you have to follow your partner. If we were on the dance floor right now, you would have totally pissed off whatever guy or girl you were dancing with."

Now it seemed like this girl was insisting on dancing on a different beat from the rest of the class just to teach me a lesson. Can't we just do it right, I wanted badly to say. But it was my first day in a new place, where there were few newcomers. I didn't want to cause anything. I'd just grin and bear it.

"Okay, rotate, ladies," Mitsi said.

Thank the lord, I thought.

"Don't worry, you'll get it. You're really good," the boyish girl said, taking my hand and guiding me to the next leader over.

"Oh, okay, thanks." I hadn't expected the compliment.

"Hello," I said to my next partner, an older, slightly hunched-over man. He said nothing, but gave me a quick, cursory smile. He placed his right hand firmly behind my back, his fingers clawing into the bottom of my shoulder blade. He pushed the bottom of his left palm into mine, and gripped the space between my thumb and fingers with his four fingers. Ouch.

When Mitsi called out "ONE," he took a step forward, but doing exactly what she said not to do--he led with his left hand, pushing hard into my wrist. I never thought ballroom dancing could actually hurt. I couldn't wait until that rotation was over.

The next partner was a fairly good-looking guy around forty. When I said "Hi," he flashed me a wolfish grin and raised his eyebrows high as if we were about to embark on some kind of sexual escapade instead of dance.

When the music began, he yelled, "Here we go!" as if we were getting on a roller coaster ride. And dancing with him was a roller coaster, he was so enthusiastic. He knew the steps and was able to keep the time, but he was moving so much more in the upper body than Mitsi had just taught, really swinging me around. It felt more like a fast swing than a soft, romantic rumba. He was fun though, and he didn't hurt, so I totally didn't mind if we were doing it wrong.

I was about to rotate to Mitsi, when my second partner--the boyish girl--called out, "Mitz, you need to tell all the followers they need to follow their leaders. Every single follower I've danced with today is totally back-leading!"

Okay, so she wasn't testing just me.

"That's right," Mitsi said with a here-it-comes-again tone. I thought I detected a slight roll of the eyes as well. "Ladies, or followers, you need to follow the person leading you, above all. Whether they're on the beat, not dancing the correct steps, what have you. You need to follow them or you can get hurt. Partner dancing only works if there is one follower and one leader. Okay. Just do what they're doing." Mitsi extended her hand to me. "Hey, you're new," she said with a big smile. Oh, so she did know I was new. "What's your name?"

"I'm Rory."

"I'm Mitsi. Welcome."

"Thanks!"

The music started and she called out the beats. She placed her right hand firmly but gently under my shoulder blade and moved me perfectly in time with her, with the beat. I could actually feel her shift weight and the core of her body begin to move before she actually took a step. We were that connected simply by her hand on my back. Very cool. And I could actually feel her hip and pelvic movement, and shift and twist mine accordingly. Wow, amazing how you can learn to dance just by feeling it with an experienced leader, I thought.

On the second basic, she took her hands from closed position and placed them on my shoulders, pressing down lightly. And suddenly it literally felt like she was grounding me, like my hips were moving properly in the figure eight. Exciting to feel that!

"Were you a ballerina?" she said, laughing.

"Yes!" I said.

"I can tell. You have the tendency to keep your body straight and to want to rise to the balls of your feet. It's pretty, but not Latin! I had the same problem. Just press down on your shoulders when you practice. It'll help you stay grounded and move your hips right."

"Thank you. You're helping so much," I gushed.

"It's great to teach dancers. So easy 'cuz you pick things up so fast," she said as the music ended and she passed me to my next leader.

"Wow, thanks!"

"Oh also, get the proper shoes. You're gonna slip and slide all over in those."

Proper shoes? I wanted to ask more but the next rotation was beginning.

For the rest of the class, I vowed to try at least mentally to push down on my shoulders as Mitsi had done to me, so as to properly ground myself. But that was impossible dancing with other students. I had to concentrate too hard on following correctly so as not to get yelled at, or on keeping from getting my toes stepped on or my wrist crunched.

"Okay, you guys. That's all for this week," Mitsi said after a few more rotations.

I looked at the clock. Wow, that hour had gone by quickly.

"Next week we're gonna learn a lot more," she continued. "I wanted you guys to have the basic down. The rumba party is tomorrow night and I want you all to come! Saturday's the general party. And, being the first of the month, you know what that means!"

I didn't.

"Are you performing, Mitz?" asked the bossy butch girl.

"Ohhh, I dunno!" Mitsi answered, her tone indicating she was. "You are just gonna have to come and see!"

Was Sasha performing? I badly wanted to ask, but didn't dare.

The bell rang. There was suddenly a mad dash on everyone's part to get shoes, bags, and self out the door at the maximum speed possible. I headed toward my bag, then just decided to wait it out, instead of joining in the bottleneck at the door. I had no class to go to; I might as well. I looked at myself in the mirror and pressed down on my shoulders. But right as I began a rumba basic, another load of people flew into the room. I felt stupid now, with people watching me.

As I picked up my bag I noticed these students were very different from the ones who'd just been in my class. There was a seriously buff Asian woman wearing only a red leotard, black fishnet tights, and high-heeled black velvet Latin sandals. There was a bleached blonde wearing a tight, black unitard that evoked Olivia Newton-John's character at the end of "Grease." There was an older, grandmotherly-looking woman wearing yoga pants and a tank top, her hair in a bun. She almost floored me when she walked straight to the back barre--which I hadn't even realized was there--and tossed her leg high up in the air and over it. Then she arched so far back, her fingers nearly graced the floor, before coming back up and sliding her standing leg practically down the length of the barre. She slid down until she was doing the splits. Whoa. Ballet masters said you could always retain your flexibility if you never stopped stretching. This lady was proof of that.

And the guys. Wow. They all wore the same form-fitting, sexy Latin pants Sasha'd worn. Along with the same spandex shirts open at the top to reveal serious pecs. And the black jazz shoes with the inch-high Cuban heel. This was clearly a high-level class.

I saw out of the corner of my eye the tall redhead, Luna, pointing at me. She was whispering to a girl holding a scanner wand. Crap, I wasn't registered for this class. They probably thought I was trying to sneak into it.

I walked toward them. "Sorry, I was just waiting for the crowd at the door to die down a bit so I could leave," I said with a laugh.

Luna simply blinked, raised her chin above my head, turned from me, and walked to the center of the room, standing to face the mirror, smack in front of the buff Asian woman.

"It's okay, you're new," said the girl with the scanner, smiling as soon as Luna walked away.

I sensed eyes on me. I looked out at the roomful of people to see nearly everyone staring right at me. Had I really made that much of a scene? Jeez. Embarrassed, I held my head down and scampered out of the room and down the hall.

As I rounded the corner, a shadow suddenly engulfed me. I dug my heels into the ground trying to stop myself, lest I run into the person. My ballet flats had absolutely zero traction, though--Mitsi was right--and I wobbled backward, circling my arms about to regain balance. I didn't even look up, I was so embarrassed over almost falling. The shadow moved over me. A large hand reached up and over my shoulder, catching me around the shoulder blade as if he were my leader and we were dancing. Then I recognized the oaky, musky, cinnamon-y scent, the heavenly feel of the long, firm fingers gracefully but solidly arched around the muscle right below my shoulder blade, above my waist. My breath caught in my throat. I looked up, straight into Sasha's wide, dark blue eyes.

I literally gasped. I couldn't help it. But instead of laughing at my gaffe, his eyes grew even wider as our pupils met. He blinked hard then began searching my face as if looking intently for something. Finally stopping to focus on the outer edge of my mouth, he blinked again and took a breath. His lips parted as if he was going to say something, but closed without a word. Without making eye contact again, he looked down, and slowly removed his arm from around my back.

"Excuse me," he said, peering up briefly to lock eyes with me once again.

An electric bolt charged from my chest to my lower belly, making my nether regions so tingly I automatically crossed my legs. He gave me a polite nod and walked around me, down the hall. I looked around the corner, and watched him going into the room I'd just exited. I had to remind myself to breathe before continuing on my way.

How I wanted to go back and watch that class. But I'd noted there wasn't a window on the outside of that room. Unfair!

The whole drive home I couldn't get his gaze out of my mind, the way he'd searched my face. What on earth was he looking for?
Chapter 5

When I got home, James hadn't yet returned from work. I was still so excited from my encounter with Sasha, I couldn't sleep. For some reason, I felt like dressing in my lacy pink nightie. I poured myself a glass of chardonnay and sat on the couch, watching a "Game of Thrones" episode without paying any attention to it, my mind otherwise occupied.

I had dozed off, and was doing a rumba basic with Sasha, him all the while giving me that searching, haunted look, when the doorknob turned. I bolted up, blinked awake. I must have turned off the TV but the diagonal strand of rose ceiling lights were dimmed. James walked in, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, his thick brown hair a bit ruffled. He pushed the door closed, kicked off his shoes and dropped his briefcase in the foyer. He was on his way to the bedroom when he did a double take at the couch. His eyes met mine and he jumped.

"Shit! Honey! What are you doing up at this hour?" He patted his hair down.

"Mmmm, I dunno. I fell asleep. Hard day at the office?" I was very groggy.

"Yeah, yeah. I almost slept there." He shook his head. "Unbelievable but the paralegal fucking lost a bunch of paperwork. I've been in the basement half the fucking night going through box... What are you wearing?"

I looked down at my negligee, which now bore a circular wine stain right between the boobs. "Um...I was just having a hard time sleeping." I looked around at the carpet, hoping I didn't spill anything there.

"You look...relaxed, for once...not to mention sexy," he said with a sly smile.

He sauntered over to the couch, plopped down next to me, and put his hand on my knee, making me flinch. Horribly, I didn't want it there. Not after I'd been in Sasha's arms, albeit in my dreams.

"I decided to take a ballroom class at that studio," I blurted out.

"What?" He sat back.

"Rumba. I had my first lesson tonight."

"Oh. Wow," he said with a bemused frown.

"Cheryl may be bored and lonely, but I need relief from stress." I wasn't going to tell him about the class. I don't know why. Maybe because I felt guilty for feeling desires for Sasha. It was just a silly crush, though. It wasn't a big deal to take a dance lesson alone.

"Well...good, honey. I mean, it seems to be working." He lifted his brows and shook his head as if he were shaking off his frown. Then he slowly started kissing my cheek, then my lips, moving his hand up my thigh.

But instead of Sasha's oaky cinnamon scent, I smelled cigarettes on his breath, and tasted whisky. "Oh wow," I groaned. "I'm really sorry. I'm more tired than I thought."

***

Despite being up too late, I got up early the next day and made sure I got to work before Gunther could go to court or get too busy.

"Hi. I really need to talk to you about the Warren case," I said, sticking my head into his office. "I'm sorry but it really can't wait."

He checked his watch. "I've got about three minutes."

"Oh thank you." I dashed to the chair opposite his desk, promptly sat and told him, in as much detail as I could divulge in approximately three minutes, everything about my interaction with Mr. Warren.

"Rory, you have to be stronger with him," Gunther said, cutting me off. "Shut him up. Control the conversation. Don't let him give you bullshit."

"But, I mean, I'm worried he may be mentally ill."

Gunther rolled his eyes. "He have any history of that?"

"Not that I can find. Should I hire an investigator or something to look into his past--"

Gunther sniggered and shook his head dramatically. "No, no, we're not doing that. Did you ask him?"

Had he listened to everything I'd just told him? "I tried and he got very--"

"Right, right, right," he said, apparently remembering. "Rory, these criminal defendants like to be difficult, play games, pretend to be crazy so they can avoid prison. Go see him again. You're an attorney. Be powerful. Now I've got to get to this motion before going to court so please excuse me."

***

I called security at the holding facility and headed back to Compton. I wasn't at all surprised when the guard told me Mr. Warren refused to see me.

"But he has to cooperate with his lawyer. I'm his only chance," I said. My voice sounded whiney. I couldn't help it. Gunther was going to be pissed if I didn't talk to him.

"Sorry, that's what he says," the guard said, shrugging.

"Well, can you just take him a written message please?"

"Sure." The guard shrugged again.

I knew the guard would probably read my message, violating attorney-client privilege, but I had no choice. I ripped a sheet from my legal pad and wrote Mr. Warren that if he didn't come out to talk, I'd have no choice but to request a psychiatric evaluation of him. I folded it up several times and gave it to the guard. About ten minutes later, I heard Mr. Warren's shuffling footsteps emerging from the back hall.

"No shouting or pulling on the bars or any other shit this time, Warren," I heard a female guard in back yell.

Mr. Warren took his seat across from me and looked straight into my eyes this time. "Please," he began immediately. "You can't do this to me. I'm not psycho. You can't make me a monster. You just can't. I won't let you." He rocked back and forth in his seat.

"Mr. Warren, I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you--"

"No! You'll turn it all around. You're turning it all around," he yelled, punching his side of the table.

"Okay, Mr. Warren. P-p-please don't do that," I stuttered, afraid the guard would take him away again before we made any headway. "Look, why don't you just tell me your side of the story about this phone call?"

"No. No. No." He covered his ears and closed his eyes, shaking his head. He was front-cuffed again and I could see the metal digging into his nose and drawing a bit of blood.

"Mr. Warren, please calm down. Don't make yourself bleed. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

He got up. "You're not...you can't...you can't get away with this." Suddenly I saw his hand swiping toward me. The metal of the cuffs clanked loudly against the bars.

The guard stormed in. "That's it, folks. Session's up."

I knew arguing would be futile. This time Mr. Warren fought being escorted back to his cell. It took three guards to subdue him. I heard his cries echo for some time down that long hall. "Please no, please don't do it!"

So much for being "Ms. Professional Attorney Who Can Control Her Client."

***

I gave myself plenty of time to get to the studio for the rumba party, and again arrived early. I used the time to take Mitsi's suggestion and peruse the shoes in the glass case up front. There were so blasted many. Closed-toed, full open-toed sandals, ones with only a peephole toe, and all different degrees of heel height and width. Not to mention colors and fabrics. Some leather, some satin. I tried to remember what Xenia wore.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see the butch girl from my class last night. I would have backed away if it wouldn't have meant backing straight into the glass cabinet.

"Oh, hi," I said, wondering how she planned to torment me up here.

She moved very close to me. I could feel her breath on me. I had no idea what she was doing.

"Just between you and me," she whispered, looking all around before continuing. "They don't have a very comprehensive selection here. Go to WorldTone."

"WorldToned...?" I repeated.

"WorldTone," she whispered as if we she was imparting top secret information. "In Westwood, near UCLA. They have the largest selection anywhere in the city, anywhere in California. And they have loads of specialists who totally know what they're doing and can help you choose the right ones. Give them your I.D. from here and they'll give you a discount."

"That's actually near where I live," I said. "Cool, thanks."

"Yep. WorldTone rocks. You here for the party?"

"Um..." I hesitated because I didn't want to spend my night dancing with Ms. Bossypants. "Well, um, yeah." Okay, I wasn't very fast on my feet.

She shot me a dubious look. "You here for a private?" She raised her eyebrows. "Or to use the practice room?"

"What?"

"Damn, girl, I never saw anyone so freaked out about starting privates! Come on, lemme guess, you're going to compete, with..." She stood back and looked me up and down, squinting her eyes. "Sasha, right?"

The strap of my dance bag slid off my shoulder and the several-pound sack dropped straight to the floor. Who was this girl?

"I--what? Compete? I--who's Sasha?" I accidentally shouted out every one of my words except his name, which I inadvertently whispered. Was my schoolgirl crush that obvious? And what did she mean by compete? I took a breath. "No. Really, I'm here for the practice party."

She took a step away from me and looked me up and down. "Come on. Don't lead me on. You're not really here for social dance. You're here to train for competition."

Lead her on? Seriously, who was this chick?

"Because you're so serious," she continued, answering a question I hadn't asked. Yet, anyway. "The way you were looking at yourself in the mirror and trying so hard on a basic. And it's obvious you have training. And you just look so...polished and...I dunno, like a real dancer."

I felt my cheeks heat up. She was being so nice. I'd had her pegged as a bossy pest. Boy, had I misjudged.

A pretty girl with long brown hair tied in a sassy ponytail sashayed up behind her and slowly wrapped her arms around her waist. "Ready," the girl asked. She wore a swingy practice skirt over a shiny leotard, and cherry red lipstick.

"Totally." Bossy girl turned to her and they cheek-kissed. "Well, girl-who's-not-here-to-compete, we're heading up to the main practice room," she said to me. "You should come with us. Everyone practices up there. I mean, all the serious students. And of course the pros. Come on, party girl. Party doesn't start for half an hour, anyway."

The pros?

"Um, oh, okay, sure," I said, trying to be nonchalant. "Thanks for inviting me."

"No prob. By the way, I'm Kendra, and this is Josie," she said, motioning to the lipsticked girl.

"I'm Rory."

She frowned. "As in roar, tiger?"

She'd obviously never heard the nickname. I guess it wasn't common, at least for a girl. I just hated my real name--Aurora--so much.

I spelled it out. "You don't want to know what it's short for," I said.

"Okay, cool." She laughed. She had a hearty laugh.

I was beginning to really like this girl.

I followed them up two flights of stairs, to the same floor we were on last night. But this time we walked down another long hallway, all the way to the end. Josie opened the door and light flooded out of the room and into the hallway. The room was absolutely huge and replete with polished wood floors, chandeliers, and decorative Christmas lights lining the walls, making the floor-to-ceiling mirrors look like windows into some kind of magical realm. I recognized it immediately as the ballroom shown on the studio's brochure and website. Diaphanous silk screen room dividers sectioned off various parts of the room. The whole place was aglow. It felt like heaven.

"There are tons of benches, if you want to just sit and watch," Kendra said. "If you want to reserve space for yourself, you pay downstairs. But we'd greatly appreciate hearing what you think of our choreography. We're competing soon!" I followed them to a bench inside a silk screen cornering off their space.

Once settled, I began to look around. There were so many people. Some practicing alone, some couples. Several people wore earbuds and an iPod tied to their waist. There was a central stereo, which was currently playing a waltz. I noticed a couple waltzing in the far corner. They were elegant and beautiful and seemed to dance on air. Right after the music ended, they immediately hunched over and grabbed their waists, out of breath.

"We're up, babe," a deep, male, Brooklyn-accented voice called out. I turned to see a ruggedly handsome man with dark hair, wearing cut-off black sweats and a torn white t-shirt, sprinting toward the stereo.

"Ready for ya!" I recognized Mitsi's voice right away. I turned to see her. She wore a sleek, sexy black unitard and beige open-toed dance sandals. She had bright purple toenails that matched her lipstick.

The ruggedly handsome man ran back to her, and they took a very jazzed-up position. Donna Summer's "Last Dance" began to boom over the speakers. The room became quiet. Everyone stood still and watched them. They began with some sexy rumba moves, then, when the music picked up, took off, dancing the most supercharged routine, replete with all manner of thrilling overhead lifts, crazy lightening-speed spins, and death-defying deep dips where it looked like she might crack her head on the floor if he wasn't seriously careful. At one point, they were going so fast they looked like they were ice skating. Many of the lifts and turns were ballet-based. But they looked so much cooler danced so fast and set to pulsing music. At the end, everyone in the room went wild with applause. Mitsi spotted me and I held my hands in the air and clapped. She waved at me.

Then, Bronislava, the jive teacher I'd seen when I'd registered, darted to the stereo, and returned to the middle of the floor, where she took a closed position with a tall, blond-haired, dimpled-cheeked man while waiting for their music to start. Where is Sasha, I thought, and began looking around. But Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" began pulsing over the stereo, and the two launched into such mouthwateringly sexy choreography, it was nearly impossible to take your attention from them.

But not completely impossible. About halfway through the Timberlake number, the front door opened and in strutted Xenia. My stomach dropped. She wore a tight black leotard that was cut low in the chest and high in the hips. She had sweater leggings over her calves but her thighs were uncovered. They were solid muscle. She had no makeup on. And yet she was drop-dead gorgeous, a natural beauty. She walked to the center of the room and sat down on a bench. She pulled some kind of brush out of her bag and began scrubbing the bottoms of her shoes.

My heart pounded. The room ooohed and aaaahed at Bronislava's Timberlake number but all I could think of was Sasha. I looked all around, couldn't find him. Xenia harrumphed, threw the brush into her bag, got up and began some absolutely beautiful hip-swaying walks forward and backward, scrutinizing her image in the mirror.

As I watched her, I saw a rectangular portion of mirrored wall in the back of the room open to reveal another studio. Wow, this place was endless. Out walked a woman with long, sandy blonde hair tied back loosely in a scorpion clip, strands of hair framing her face. She was dressed very similarly to Xenia. Except she didn't have Xenia's taut body. She definitely wasn't overweight--far from it. But, if I were going to wear a leotard that rode up my butt with nothing covering it, I'd want to have glutes of steel. Actually, I'd probably never wear such a thing. I was just too conservative and body-conscious. I'd always been that way, even when I was young and very thin.

I got so lost in my thoughts of my childhood ballet-induced body image issues that I didn't notice until the woman approached Xenia that she was Cheryl. My heart dropped to my stomach. I didn't want her to see me. I put my head down, and brought my legs to my chest, pretending to stretch my back, although the shape also had the effect of rolling me into a ball so as to hide. I opened my knees slightly to peek out. Cheryl had finished speaking to Xenia and was just passing by me. She looked out at the room with a sly smile on her face, like the cat who'd just eaten the canary.

As soon as she'd left through the front door, I turned to the back room. Sure enough, a few seconds later he emerged through the same door. He turned a switch and the lights went out in that back room. He closed the door behind him and strutted toward Xenia. He passed right by me, in a cooler-than-thou sexy strut. But he didn't see me. I was still rolled into my ball.

The man simply set my insides on fire. He wore form-fitting black dance pants and a white tank that revealed dark nipples underneath. On his back, I glimpsed the outlines of a large tattoo centered over his spine and reaching across his shoulder blades, the edges peeking out slightly at the shirt's open shoulders. I was overcome with jealousy of Cheryl. To be in that private room with that man. But guilt soon replaced my jealousy. Did I not have a boyfriend? I mean, she had a husband. But her life and actions didn't concern me. I was not a cheater. Even mentally. I had to snap out of this silly schoolgirl fantasy. I was here to dance, to relearn to be a dancer. Not to lust over this man.

Sasha took Xenia's hand into his and pulled her to the center of their area, without any other kind of greeting. At least as far as I could tell; I wasn't within earshot of them now. The room had become very quiet. I looked around via the mirror. The place was suddenly packed. Everyone's gaze was focused in exactly the same direction as mine. Which was of course on them.

He gave her arm a slight push and they took off at once, dancing such a fast pattern, they immediately became a blur. Then he stopped abruptly, prompting her to stop. He circled her, eyeing the floor and shaking his head. Then, he stood still, put his hands on his hips and looked her in the eye. My stomach took a nosedive on her behalf. This was not a happy, loving look. Quite the opposite. She shrugged and held her head down. He slowly took her hand again, gave her that same push, this time seemingly harder than last, and they began the lightening-fast pattern for the second time, his hips making my heart skip beats. Many beats. This time they went a little longer and she lifted one of her legs high in the air, her calf nearly touching her ear. She held her leg there for a few beats then lowered it, and they continued with more speed-of-light movement.

Oh man, I used to be that flexible. I wondered if I still was.

But again, he stopped abruptly. After she stopped, he walked toward her. He said something I couldn't hear. His jaw was clenched, his eyes opened frighteningly wide. He turned her around, placed himself behind her. He reached around her, placing his hand softly on her belly, the gentleness a sharp contrast to the way he'd just glared at her. He shifted his weight behind her, cueing her to turn to him, step into arms, just as he did several back walks. She followed. The slow walks were so dramatic, so full of hip movement, twists of the waist and beautifully extended arms. I could watch them walk like this all night long. It took me a while to realize there wasn't even any music playing. They didn't need music to captivate everyone in attendance. He bent down and whisked her high into the air, turning her from top to bottom midway through. He let her down by kneeling to the floor. She crawled over his back, then walked slowly, dramatically around him, brushing his shoulder with her fingers. So intense. So beautiful.

"Ohhhh, their rumba is to die for," I heard someone say. I hadn't even realized it was rumba. It was certainly nothing like what I'd learned last night.

He stopped, put his hands on his hips again. She did the same, rolling her head back, tapping her foot on the floor. I could see their lips moving. They were having words.

Suddenly I noticed hands waving and a body jumping mere inches from my face.

"Earth to Rory!" Kendra laughed.

"Sorry," I said, smiling and shaking my head like I was shaking myself out of some kind of trance.

"The practice party started about ten minutes ago," she said, retrieving her bag. "You coming?"

"Um, I think I'm gonna stay here for just a few more minutes. I'll come up in a few."

"Down," Kendra said.

"What?" I was confused.

"The party's one floor down, in the main room, right below this one." She laughed.

"Oh, okay, thanks. See you soon!"

She smiled and said, "Righhht," in a way that indicated she didn't believe me at all.

***

She was right not to believe me. I became so immersed in the mouth-wateringly gorgeous dancing and serious anger-laden drama between Sasha and Xenia that I completely missed the practice party. They danced bits and pieces of several routines, with him always stopping early, hands on hips, shooting her daggers. They raised their voices, so I could now hear them, but they spoke in Russian so I couldn't understand a thing. But it was clear they were fighting. I couldn't see what he was mad at. Everything looked perfect to me. But what did I know?

Finally, he threw his hands up and walked away from her. Just like that. She yelled at him, then started crying. He pivoted around toward her, shaking his head. He started to approach her, but she turned around and ran out of the room. He turned and continued on to the back room he'd just come from.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, there was an exodus from the practice room. I waited for about half an hour, watching the others, waiting for him. But he never came back out. I was a little depressed that he could dance so beautifully and yet have such a problematic relationship with his partner. But I had no idea what the dynamics of their relationship were, so I wasn't one to judge. I was also perturbed at myself for missing the practice party. I wanted to advance as quickly as possible, and for that I needed practice. Oh well, there would be plenty of other parties.
Chapter 6

Gunther rolled his eyes when I told him about my attempt the prior day to have some kind of meaningful communication with Mr. Warren.

He looked off into the distance for a few moments, then shrugged. "Okay," he said, and looked back to his computer.

"Um, okay...?"

"Didn't you ask me whether you should file a motion for a competency exam?" he said with a sneer and a shake of the head.

I couldn't always read what he wanted. "Oh, yes. So I should go ahead and do that?"

"Yes!" Gunther flicked his hand at me, indicating for me to be off.

When I got back to my office, I called my friend Maya, at the Oakland P.D.'s, who emailed me a sample motion from her office, since I didn't dare ask Gunther for one.

"Just make sure you look up the rules for L.A. County," she said. "Since our counties may differ."

"I will. Thanks! I don't know what I'd do without you. I owe you super big time."

"I'm not liking your office," she said. "Throwing a new attorney to the wolves like this isn't good for either you or the client. If you find you like criminal, the P.D.'s or D.A.'s offices are so much better. You will definitely learn your stuff there. I mean, stay where you are for a couple years first. Leaving a first job too soon would look bad."

Ugh, a couple of years. Could I handle Gunther for that long?

***

I found myself depressed all day, busy as I was on the motion. It wasn't until early evening that I realized why: I had no reason to go to the studio tonight to unwind. I had no classes or practice party. I mean, there was a party, but it was in a dance I hadn't yet learned so it would be silly to go. Well, Saturday night is just around the corner, I told myself just as my phone beeped.

"Rory, James is on one," said the receptionist.

"Okay, thank you," I said.

"Rory Laudner," I answered just in case the receptionist had made a mistake and it was actually a client. I was somewhat anal that way.

"Hi, honey," he said, laughing. He knew me well.

"How are you?"

"Good. How are you?"

"Fine," I lied.

"Just wanted to give you some awesome news. Mitchell and Cheryl have invited us to the L.A. Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl on Saturday night. Box seats! And they've invited us to join them in the limo. Your first limo ride through L.A., and your first Hollywood Bowl!"

My stomach sank. That meant I wouldn't be able to go to the big Saturday party at which Sasha and Xenia were to perform, along with all the other teachers.

"Rory, you there?"

"Um, yeah. That's nice of him. But, um..." I had nothing to say. I couldn't tell James I needed to go to a free practice party at my studio to watch some guy I was crushing on dance.

"Nice? These tickets are hundreds of dollars apiece. And, the limo. I don't even want to think about that expense. And I think they're going to take us out to a nice dinner beforehand at a very fancy, historical Hollywood restaurant. Rory, how are you not excited?"

"I am. I mean, there's this party at the studio that I was planning on going to, but you know, this...seems like...such a deal." I sounded ridiculous.

Substantial pause on his end. "I thought you loved classical music. Because of ballet and all." I could tell he was dejected.

"Yes, of course I do." I was disappointed but felt badly for him. He was thinking of me. I did like classical music, at least that which was used in ballet. And this would be an excellent opportunity for me to do something Hollywood-y I otherwise wouldn't be able to afford. "Yes, you're totally right. Do you know what they're performing?" I tried to sound more excited.

Another pause. "I don't know, Rory. I just know it's classical. I think a medley, maybe. Does it matter?" Now his frustrated tone had returned. Sometimes when I asked him things he didn't know, he'd get that annoyed tone.

"No, it doesn't. Yes, of course I want to go. I can go to a studio party another time. I'm really looking forward to the music," I said as assertively as I could, trying to convince myself.

"Thanks, honey!" He now sounded excited as a schoolboy, all trace of annoyance gone. And we're talking Mitchell, the senior partner, so you know..."

How important this is to him, I finished his sentence to myself. "Yes, I do. Thanks for thinking of me. I do love classical. Especially Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky and all."

"I know you do. Glad we've got it all worked out."

After we hung up, I swiveled around in my chair and clicked on the Firefox icon. I found myself on the studio's website, searching for any other level one classes I could register for that hadn't yet begun for the month.

I found a beginner mambo class on Thursdays, starting tomorrow night. I called the studio to see if it was still open. It was. I gave my credit card number and I was in. I bounced a bit in my chair. Yes, something to look forward to, even if my Saturday night had taken a downturn! I felt a layer of clouds suddenly lifted off me. I returned to my motion far less depressed.

***

The mambo teacher's name was Pepe. He was a muscly Latino man with dark, razor-short hair, bright white teeth, and a very flirty personality. He was extremely hot. He was also flaming gay. This I knew right off the bat because I figured for such a sexy-sounding class with fast movement and hip-shaking, I'd wear this fun, flowing, hot pink Betsey Johnson dress I had that I never had the nerve to wear. I also figured it was the best thing I had that would take attention away from my nerdy ballet flats. I hadn't yet had time to go to WorldTone and wouldn't until the weekend.

Anyway, the first thing he said when he saw me was, "Whoa, LOVE that dress, honey!"

Just then, I remembered that, back at a club in San Fran, Maya had dubbed it my gaydar dress. It was a dress gay men would not be able to contain their enthusiasm for, she'd insisted. We'd tried it out on several of our friends and she was totally right.

My decision to sign up for this class had been wise--it turned out to be mad, crazy fun! There were a lot more beginners, which, along with Pepe's laid-back attitude, made the class less formal. No Kendra, no Luna. But the Indian man I'd danced with in rumba, whose name I found out was Rajiv, was there. I waved to him excitedly. He smiled back shyly. When it came time to take partners, he was somehow positioned across from me, so I naturally went to him. My second class and I already had a regular partner, even if he was a bit of a toe-stomper.

The basic was simple: right foot forward, left steps in place, right meets the left, then the same but with the left foot going back first. The trickiest thing, Pepe warned, was to find the proper beat to begin on, which in Cuban mambo, unlike Americanized salsa, was on the two instead of the one.

"If you start on the two, it gives the dance a whole different flavor!" He raised his eyebrows as if we were about to see a strip show or something.

Well, huge understatement to call finding the beat tricky. He told us to listen to the music for about a minute, which we did. The beat was so pulsating and the lyrics so fun, it was hard to stand still.

"Don't dance yet, just listen, hear the beats. Feel the beats," he insisted.

I did as he said, tuning out the overlay of instruments and focusing on the music's structure. It was easy. Then he clicked off the music with the remote, and told us he was going to start it again. He wanted us to find the second beat.

He walked toward the stereo, the atmosphere ridiculously intense. We all shot each other deer-in-headlights looks, like we were about to take the California bar exam. When the music started and I heard the second beat, I moved my foot. But no one else did. I second-guessed myself and promptly stopped, causing myself to nearly lose balance. But then the beats kept happening and no one moved. Everyone just kept looking at each other.

"Okay, I have no idea what that was just now," Pepe said, laughing and clicking the music off. "This sure is a strange-ass nightclub! With no one dancing! Let's try again."

We all laughed at ourselves. But when he started the music again, same thing. Again, I thought I heard the second beat but no one else moved, so I didn't either. We all looked at each other. Not at each other's faces even, but at each other's feet. Talk about herd mentality.

"Seriously, guys. Is everyone really that afraid to be first? Take a risk! Make a statement! Don't be afraid to be you!" He burst out laughing. He was having fun with us.

This time when I heard the second beat, I lifted my foot, forcing myself not to look at anyone else. Someone else must have seen me because I saw a foot go down right after mine. But it was after. So now he was dancing on the half beat. Others began too. Then others. I glanced at the mirror. Every single person in the class was dancing on a different beat. Our footwork was the complete antithesis of synchronization. And everyone was hunched way over, staring at feet--theirs and the person's beside them--as if we had collective early-onset osteoporosis.

I caught Pepe's face in the mirror. He rolled his eyes and smiled at me. "You're right," he mouthed.

Even though I'd learned to count music when I was little, figuring out this crazy mambo beat, which had eluded everyone else, was ridiculously uplifting. His loopy smile gave me a burst of confidence.

"Okay guys. Good try, good try. Now, let the masta show you how it's done." He restarted the music and took off.

Of course he rocked it. I swooned, watching his hips jut this way and that, his feet sliding over the floor making complicated patterns with such speed his lower legs were a total blur. I was so happy to be back in the dance world. I just wanted to laugh the rest of the night.

"I hope you'll all come to the mambo/salsa practice party Friday night. I might even show up for a few, dance a little with all a youse." With this he winked and pointed in my direction.

Pepe was my new best friend.

The second Pepe dismissed us, I dashed downstairs to the main practice room Kendra had shown me the night before. My chest deflated when I didn't see Sasha. Mitsi and Bronislava were rehearsing with their partners. I sat and watched. I loved being here, even if Sasha wasn't. I noticed some other students, even the not-so-advanced ones, practicing alone in front of the mirror, in a little corner of the floor, reminding me that I could do the same.

I waited forty-five minutes. Still no Sasha. I needed to get home. I hadn't told James I'd be late and I didn't want to start the habit of getting to work groggy.

I was just about to leave the practice room when I heard a door slam behind me. I turned around to see Xenia stomping out of the back room. Of course, I thought. I should know that's where they were. Her face was bright red with anger and she looked like she was about to seriously injure someone. She seemed to be coming straight at me. I stepped aside just in time to avoid colliding with her. While she was still in the doorway, Sasha appeared at the back door. He said something to her in Russian. He didn't seem angry like he had the other night. He held his arms out toward her as if he were pleading with her. She turned around. He genuinely looked hurt. I heard her in back of me making some kind of strange gurgling noise. I turned around just in time for her to spit. She meant to spit at him, but since I was in her way, I got the bulk of the spray. She looked at me like I was the culprit. She said something in Russian. I couldn't tell if it was directed at him or me since we were both in her line of sight, but it sounded nasty. Then she stormed out.

I heard some laughter. I felt stupid. I wiped the spit off my cheek. I looked back at Sasha. The laughter was most definitely not coming from him. I saw recognition dawn in his eyes. His lips parted. He looked back and forth between me and the door Xenia just walked through, his eyes fixing on me, widening.

"I'm very sorry about that. Are, are you okay?" he said to me.

He had a Russian accent but it was very slight. His English accent was actually very good. His gaze grew more intense and I felt those pupils piercing mine again. I felt like they were penetrating more than just my eyes, as an electric current snaked its way down my spine, stopping at my sex, which began to clench. He took one step closer. He began to reach toward me. It looked like he wanted to touch me. But that could have been all in my head because he promptly put his arm back down.

"Please," he said again, taking another half step toward me. "Accept my apology." There was such concern in his eyes. This man's increasingly close presence was really sending vibrations all throughout my body, and my lower belly was actually beginning to ache with want. I began to cross my legs again, then caught myself. This was insane. I had to get home. I opened my mouth to say I was fine and thank you for asking, like a normal polite girl would do, but no words would come out. I felt my eyes begin to water and my cheeks begin to redden. I nodded, pirouetted around, and bolted toward the door.
Chapter 7

The whole night, I couldn't get Sasha out of my mind. The way he'd spoken to me, asking if I was okay in such a concerned tone. The more I thought about it, the way he apologized made it sound like someone had done something far more horrible to me. The way he'd pleaded with Xenia. His Russian, his English, his surprisingly Americanized accent. The way he looked at me. The way my cheeks heated up and my sex clenched and the way I ran away from him. What an ass I kept making of myself around this man. And of course I couldn't stop wondering what had happened between him and Xenia. Had they broken up? Did she always spit at him and run from him? Was this just another one of their nights together at the studio?

***

I knocked on Gunther's door, the finished Warren motion in hand.

"What is it now?" he said without looking up.

"Um, I just want to show you the Warren motion that I drafted?" I asked more than said.

He frowned and rolled his eyes as if trying to remember something. Then, still without looking up at me, he held out his hand. I placed the papers into his palm and began to walk away.

"Whoa, whoa, who, where are you going?" He finally looked up at me.

"Um, I was going to give you time to read it?"

"I can read pretty quickly," he said with a snicker. He pointed toward the chair in front of his desk, indicating for me to sit.

He was right. He was a quick read, having scanned the several-page motion--which included my interactions with Warren, the attorney notes, and my own phone calls to the jail and to Mr. Warren's former boss trying unsuccessfully to glean information into Mr. Warren's current state of mind--in all of one minute.

He nodded, and handed it back to me, promptly returning his focus to his computer.

"Um, it's all okay? No changes?"

"Rory, don't you think I would have told you if there were?"

"Um, yes. I guess I just wanted to make sure, sir."

I'd gotten up and was beginning to walk out when he called me back. "Yes, sir?"

He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I need you not to doubt yourself so much, okay, Rory? I can't have someone whose hand I have to constantly hold, you know."

I knew if I made any mistakes, he would have killed me. I just wanted to make sure everything was correct. But I didn't say anything. I just nodded. "Yes, sir," I said, walking out.

"Oh, and Rory," he called out.

I turned around.

"After you file it, I need you to summarize that depo." He nodded in the direction of his side chair, in which several huge files sat.

Ugh, deposition summaries. Peon work that was boredom uncontained. But at least it wasn't stressful. It was only inter-office; nothing would be filed with the court or affect a client's freedom. I should be thankful for a breather from Mr. Warren's case. I wished there was some kind of medium at my job between panic-inducing stress and brain-atrophying boredom.

***

When five o'clock rolled around, I sprinted to the office restroom to change for the studio. This time I donned a red and white gingham dress with cute peasant sleeves that could be sexily worn off the shoulder, and a flowing A-line skirt that cut off just above the knees. I had red ballet flats tonight. Red seemed a very salsa-y color.

Within two miles of the studio, traffic became bumper to bumper. I should have known it would; Friday night traffic in L.A. was generally bad. Okay, awful. Heinous. Although I'd left work early, by the time I got to the studio the practice party was well underway. I had no time to visit the practice room and tonight I actually wanted to go to the party and work on my own steps. I spotted Rajiv dancing with another girl I recognized from our class. I waved. He waved back and held up a finger indicating he'd give me the next dance. I sat down. There were far more women than men, and women were practicing alone or with each other. I saw some people sipping wine and nibbling on cheese and crackers in the back room. I sauntered back. I didn't want to eat, even though I hadn't had dinner. Eating made me feel bloated and I couldn't dance feeling like I had a balloon in my stomach. I poured myself a cup of ice water.

The song ended and I placed my water cup down to return to the dance floor. Everyone in the back room had the exact same reaction. Suddenly it was like a herd of cattle had rushed the door to the main room. I was far behind. Poor Rajiv was flocked by women. As the next dance started, he shot me a forlorn look and shrugged, taking the hand of the woman whose forehead currently abutted his chin. I smiled and nodded that I understood. What was he to do? I would have asked James to come but he'd told me to expect him home late tonight to make up for missing work tomorrow night for the Hollywood Bowl. Plus, as much as I hated to admit it, I didn't want Sasha to see him with me here.

After that song ended, the same exact thing happened. I tried to get to Rajiv as fast as I could but another girl beat me. This time, though, he shook his head at her, and waved me over.

"I'm sorry," I heard him say. "I promised Rory I'd dance at least once with her. Next dance, I promise."

She shot me a tight-lipped smile as I passed her and took his hand. I mouthed "sorry" to her but she held her head up and walked away, not needing my pity.

"What can I say? I'm a popular guy." Rajiv laughed as he took me in the closed dance position we'd learned in class. I laughed at his joke. But apparently I laughed a little too hard. "Okay, it's not that funny," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, worried I'd hurt his feelings. He was a nice guy who made me feel so at ease I actually had to remind myself I didn't know him all that well yet.

"It's all right, okay. I'm joking!"

Rajiv was totally off on the footwork. He wasn't even putting his foot down on a beat. Well, sometimes he did, but more often than not, he stepped between a beat. I tried hard to follow him and pay no attention to the music. I tried hard to figure out when he intended to turn me by raising his hand, which way I was supposed to turn as indicated by his wrist, and how quickly I should turn since the music couldn't be an indication. Following him was much harder than dancing with myself. Screwing up ended up being fun, though. He took all the blame, apologizing throughout. I told him to shut up and stop. He laughed. From that time on we just laughed at our numerous pelvis bumps, twisted turns and smashed feet. I was glad I wore closed-toed ballet flats, though I wished they'd have been the black ones instead of the red, which now bore distinct black shoeprints.

***

After my dance with Rajiv ended, I knew I wouldn't be dancing with anyone else tonight. There were simply too many girls waiting for too few guys. So I found a little square of floor, and just started dancing the basic. I closed my eyes and tried hard to hear the beat, to start on the two, and to get the footwork and--more crucially--the grounded hip movement right so I didn't look all ballerina-y. Soon, I noticed a couple other girls without partners were standing near me, doing the same. Cool, I'd started a movement: women who could dance on their own!

After the party ended, I hightailed it upstairs to the general practice room. But there was hardly anyone there. No Mitsi, no Bronislava, and, most importantly, no Sasha. Just a few students, and it looked like they were packing up too. I sat down on one of the benches to wait to see if anyone would emerge from the back room. But it looked dark as well. Soon, I was the only one there. Feeling like a no-life loser, I left too. Friday night was apparently not a big practice night.

***

As I turned the key in my apartment door, I thought I heard some giggling. I figured it was coming from the apartment next door since James had told me he was working late. I walked in. The living room lights were dimmed. A shot of panic surged through me, as I first thought someone had broken in. Then I saw them. On the couch, James was sitting next to a very young blonde--at most, early twenties. Possibly in her late teens. The couch had three cushions and he was sitting in the middle, while she was in the corner. I closed the door so they'd hear me.

"Rory," James said, turning his head in my direction. "Was wondering what happened to you." He acted like nothing was out of the ordinary. "You didn't respond to my texts." He turned his head farther toward me and looked me up and down. "Are you coming from work?"

I'd been so immersed in the studio, I'd forgotten to even look at my phone.

"What? Oh no," I said, confused about why he wasn't working late, and curious about who this girl was. "I went to the studio for a practice party."

"The ballroom studio?" he said.

"Yeah."

I couldn't help but focus on the blonde. She was very pretty with a ski-jump nose, almond eyes and full lips. Definitely too young to be a lawyer. Was she an actress? One of his clients?

"I thought that was tomorrow night," he said. "Didn't you want to go to something tomorrow night when we have the dinner and concert with Mitchell?"

"Yeah, there's one tomorrow night too."

"How many are there?" He laughed but there was a palpable tone of annoyance in his voice. He looked at the girl and she laughed too, shrugging her shoulders as if simply following his lead.

"There are parties every night. You're allowed to go to all of them. The one on Saturday is the big one, where the pros perform."

"So, you were out, in Hollywood tonight?" His tone was getting downright pissy.

I felt like he was putting me on the defensive. "Yes... Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" I tried to change the subject. And I really wanted to know who this person was.

He shook his head and sighed loudly. "Rory, we live together. It would be nice if you'd tell me your plans on a Friday night. Becky came over and I thought we could all hang out, maybe go to a movie at the UCLA theater. But now it's too late."

"Hi, I'm Rory," I said to Becky.

"Hi," she said in a sweet-toned voice.

Neither of them seemed to be acting like anything was weird, like I'd caught them in any kind of compromising position. It must have been legit.

"Sorry, Becky is Philip's niece. She's a student at UCLA studying theater. She's new to the area and since we live nearby, I told Philip I'd show her around."

"Oh, okay," I said, softening. "Well, maybe next time. I didn't know you were waiting around. I thought you'd told me you were working late," I said to James.

"Yeah, well, ended up deciding against it. For once." He still sounded annoyed with me.

"I think I'd better get back," Becky said, rising.

She seemed nervous, and I couldn't blame her. I wouldn't feel comfortable being in the middle of a quarreling couple I didn't really know. She had long, long legs, and was very thin. She could definitely be a movie or TV actress.

"Oh no, you sure? You want to go out for coffee or anything?" he said, looking deflated.

"Nah, I appreciate it but it's getting late. I really need to get back."

"Okay, well, let me walk you out." He looked very sad, indeed.

"Nice meeting you," she said, turning back to me.

"Same here," I answered.

James said nothing.

I waited for a few minutes for him to return. When he did so, he walked straight to the TV and began fidgeting with the DVR.

"So, what did you guys end up doing?" I said. "I mean, before I got here?"

"Huh?" He looked at the remote, confused. I couldn't tell if he was speaking to me or the apparently non-working device. "Oh, we just went to Barney's Beanery on campus," he said after a pause, waving the remote about.

"And then you came back here to wait for me?" I said, still a little weirded out by the fact he brought a woman home.

He opened the remote's battery door. "Ah, yeah." He checked the batteries and put them back in.

"You didn't just wait at the restaurant?"

Batteries reinstalled, he aimed the remote at the DVR. Presto, it worked. He put the remote down, smiling at it. "What?" he said, turning his attention to me, smile dissipating. "No, we'd been there for a while. We were long done with dinner. Rory, what's the big deal?"

"Nothing," I said, and meant it. That made sense. I was worrying about nothing. "I'm tired. Gonna go to bed now."

"'Kay," he said, his attention now on the TV.
Chapter 8

I was up so early Saturday, I even beat James to the shower. He was going to work early so he could get off in time to get home and change for dinner. I was excited because today was my shoe excursion to WorldTone.

"You're up early for a weekend," he said, passing the table as I nibbled on my usual breakfast of blueberries and yogurt. "Any plans?"

"Just a little shopping."

"At the outlets in Cabazon or something?" he joked.

"No, just here in Westwood."

"Westwood? What's around here?" He frowned.

"I'm just going to this store that specializes in ballroom shoes. I don't have any and I'm slipping and sliding all over the parquet floors in my street flats." I felt like I needed to explain, if not defend myself.

James's next sentence indicated I had good reason to feel that way. "Don't get too obsessed on me now, Rory," he said, picking up his briefcase.

For some reason, he really didn't seem to like that I'd taken up dancing, and I wasn't sure why. But I was in a good mood and didn't feel like broaching the subject. "Well it'll be fun to talk about the studio with Cheryl tonight," I said instead, reminding him I wasn't the only one who'd developed a passion for dance.

He looked confused for a moment. "Oh, oh right. I forgot. Well, good, you guys will have something to talk about for a change."

True. I might actually enjoy their company.

***

Wow, Kendra was right about WorldTone's ginormous selection.

"Can I help you," asked a pretty, flawlessly made-up twenty-something Asian woman.

"I need dance shoes," I said.

"Well, you've come to the right place." She laughed. "What type of dance?"

"Um, ballroom?"

"Yes, that's what we specialize in. I mean, Latin, standard, social, or tango?"

"Sorry, Latin," I said, feeling stupid.

"It's okay! Everyone was a beginner at some point! Welcome to the world of ballroom!" She threw her arms up.

I immediately loved this bubbly girl. "Thanks."

"Which studio are you at?"

"Infectious Rhythm in Hollywood."

"Sasha Zakharov!" she literally screamed.

"Do you know him?"

At this she burst out laughing. "You mean personally? Ha! In my fantasies. He's kind of a legend. Well, not kind of... You just started there. Believe me, you'll find out all about him soon." She had a saucy, mischievous smile.

"Honestly, I fell for him the second I saw him dance at a holiday party." I felt I could trust this girl with my feelings. Especially since she obviously shared them. "Tell me everything, please!"

"Okay. But you have to buy lots of shoes from me," she joked. I think.

"Deal."

"Several years ago," she began, "he and his former partner, Micaela--she's from Russia, like he is--became the world junior champions in England. The following year, they were going to compete in the adult division, but they got into a really bad fight and broke up. Micaela and her new partner became the world champs. And they still reign! For five years no one's been able to beat them. Including, hard as he's tried, poor Sasha."

"Why?" I asked. "Is she really better than he is?" How could she be, I wondered. How could anyone be?

"Heck no. That's the big problem. He's definitely way better than Micaela's partner. He's had a few partners but he's mostly danced with Xenia. They keep coming in second. They're the national champs here--Xenia and him--'cuz they reside in the U.S. now. But Sasha wants so badly to become world champ. And he totally should be. It's just that Xenia's holding him back."

"You think that's what it is?"

She snickered so loudly she snorted. "Ah, yeah. Everyone does. Ask anyone!"

"She just seems so good," I said.

"That's because you've never seen Micaela."

"Okay, true," I conceded.

"Sasha just needs to find the right partner. Not only is that girl a total biaaaatch," she continued, elongating the last word to pretty funny effect, "but she's just not good enough for him. Dance is a partnership, you know. Doesn't matter if one is Baryshnikov, if the other's not up to par."

I nodded. "How long have they been together?"

"Three years now." She rolled her eyes. "He's tried to find other partners. And she knows it. And she holds it against him. They're always fighting. But, I mean, she's got to know she's got to let him go. I mean, when he finds the one."

"Are they, you know, more than dance partners?" I ventured, not sure if I wanted to know the answer.

"Oh yeah. That's part of the problem, if you ask me. He's been romantic partners with practically all of his dance partners," she said, a sad note in her voice. "It just seems to be part of the territory with him."

My heart fell to my stomach. It shouldn't have, of course. I had no stake in this man's life. Love life or professional life.

"Do you think he and Micaela will ever get back together?" I found myself asking anyway.

"Never. She badmouthed him a lot. Said he was impossible to work with. He's supposedly really hard on his partners. He's a total perfectionist."

An older man stepped out from behind a back curtain and eyed us.

"Anyway, we could talk about Sasha Zakharov all day. I should be helping you find what you came here for," she said.

The man must be her boss. "Right. Um, so I need Latin shoes."

She laughed, eyes scanning the store. "I think we can help you! We carry about eighteen different brands and all styles. Some have adjustable width on the toe, some are more open-toed than others, some have long straps that tie either under the arch or around the ankle--depends on where you need support--some buckle, some close with a Velcro strap, some close with a magnetic strip, and there are different heel sizes--both height and width. Some have a more flexible arch and soft toe..." She was talking so fast she sounded like an auctioneer. I was completely overwhelmed. "Best thing for you to do, really, is to just start trying on a variety of pairs."

She told me to wait while she brought me a sampling of that variety.

"Do you know what size you are?"

"Eight."

"In American street, you mean?" she said, looking quizzically at my feet.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're usually one to two sizes smaller in a dance shoe--you need a secure ankle and all. And most of the shoes are either British or European. I'll bring you a few different sizes."

While she was in the back I peeked at some of the prices. Yikes. Even the ones I'd deemed the most simple were a hundred and twenty-five dollars--more expensive than any street shoes I owned. I looked at the fancier ones made with satin with straps going every which way. They were a hundred and seventy-five. I walked around picking up pair after pair and peering at the bottoms. One fifty, one seventy-five, one twenty-five, two hundred.

She returned from the back, almost cartoonishly juggling a stack of boxes. "Let's start with these. They're the most popular," she said, nearly dropping the top few on a bench. These were the hundred and seventy-five dollar strappy ones, I recognized as she lifted the lid off the first box.

I felt like Cinderella's ugly stepsister trying to mash my foot into the delicate little princess shoe.

"They're supposed be snug. You don't want to be twisting your ankle if your foot slides through. Go try them on the parquet." She pointed to a small patch of wood floor. "Do a rumba basic," she commanded as soon as I got there.

I momentarily couldn't remember what that was.

She giggled. "I forgot, you're new. Here," she said, demonstrating.

But her basic looked like nothing I'd seen. Her legs stayed straight, without a bend in the knees. And the step went in a triangular motion, not a box. Hers was far more beautiful, more stylish. And more like ballet. She had some serious dance experience. I tried hard to imitate her.

"Okay, so you were just pretending to be a beginner," she said, laughing.

"What?" I was confused.

"That was, like, perfect. Seriously, how long have you danced for?"

She was clearly on something. "No, seriously, I'm new. To Latin, anyway. I've only ever danced ballet."

"Ahhh, that explains it!" she said with a sly smile.

This girl was good for my self-confidence. I wanted to take her to the studio with me. And to work. I giggled and danced more basics to get the feel of the shoes. After the fourth repeat, I could feel blisters already developing under the very tight straps. "I think I should try another size. Or style. Or both," I said.

"Uh-huh," she said, grinning widely. "Here we go."

Fifty-seven pairs later--I'm not kidding; I counted--I hobbled to the counter with a total of four pairs. To make an understatement, nothing fit perfectly: the toe was too open and allowed my foot to slide too far forward; the toe was too closed and I felt like a pinkie might break; the heel was too narrow for newbie me to balance on; the heel was too thick and made me clumsy; there was no arch support, leaving me susceptible to developing flat feet; the heel enclosure was too wide making me feel like I might twist an ankle; the heel enclosure was too narrow, also making me feel like I might twist an ankle; etc. etc. etc. My only solution was to get a pair that had only one of each of the problems, figuring when one started to bother me too much, I'd switch to another pair. I also grabbed a large pink Capezio bag to carry them all in before noticing it had NYCB embroidered on the front. The acronym stood for New York City Ballet.

I smiled, fingering the embroidered letters.

"You like them?"

"NYCB? Only my dream company," I said, swooning. "Former dream company."

"Ohhhh," she said, sympathetically. "Why'd you quit ballet?" She obviously knew of the company.

"Oh gosh, too many reasons to go into now." I realized my eyes were tearing up. How embarrassing. I blinked the wetness away immediately.

When she rang me up, I nearly collapsed at the total. "You know what, I think I should put the NYCB bag away. I have a gym bag anyway," I said.

"No." She glanced around the room. "You're spending so much already. I'll give you that on the house."

"Really?"

"But only if you invite me to one of those Saturday night practice parties the next time Sasha's dancing," she said with a vixenish smile.

"Deal!" I said as we high-fived. Just then I remembered tonight. I'd been so caught up in finding the perfect shoe--or a shoe that didn't kill my feet--that I'd forgotten I needed to get home soon. "Actually he's supposed to dance tonight. But my boyfriend's boss invited us to the Hollywood Bowl and he'll kill me if I don't go."

"Oh man, that BITES," she said, dramatically throwing her hands up again.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing. It WAS a huge deal to miss a Sasha dance for anything as, clearly, any sane person who'd ever witnessed the guy would know. We shared a secret bond, the two of us.

"I promise to invite you to the next one."

"Give me your number," she said, whipping out her iPhone. One look at its screen as it lit up revealed the time. Crap, it was nearly five p.m. James had scheduled the car for six. Had I really spent that much time here? We quickly exchanged numbers and names--hers was Samantha--and I flew out the door.

I hated having some place to be quickly in L.A. It was always then that there was some accident causing a crazy backup and detour, or that traffic was just inexplicably horrible. Today it was the latter. I really missed the ease of getting around by public transportation in San Francisco. I couldn't help having a real buzz though, traffic or not. I'd met a friend here who completely understood my Sasha obsession, and even shared my enthusiasm for ballet!

***

"I was wondering when you were coming home," James said from the sofa as I rushed past him carrying three huge paper bags. "What the...?" He looked up from his iPad.

"It's a long story. I'll have to tell you later." I dashed to the closet, scanning my wardrobe for something pretty but conservative. I'd planned on having more time to prepare.

I heard the rustle of paper bags behind me. I didn't turn around. I found a beige silk sheath and tossed it on the bed, while simultaneously kicking off my sandals and unbuttoning my jeans.

"You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get the proper fit. Either too tight in the toes, not enough heel support, not enough arch support... You can really hurt yourself if the shoe doesn't give you the proper support. Seriously, you can twist an ankle, get splinters in your toes from the hardwood floor," I blabbered on in self-defense.

"Rory, there are four pairs here."

"Yeah, it's really important to change shoes frequently so you minimize blisters and tension on the heel and toes that can cause bone spurs and stuff like that," I said, slightly exaggerating what Samantha had told me. "Anyway, is this okay?" I modeled the dress I now had on.

He looked confused; his frown hadn't worn off since I walked through the door. "Yeah. It looks fine. How much did all of this cost, Rory?"

"Oh, don't worry, I paid for it with my credit card."

He stared straight ahead for a few moments, in disbelief. "Well, I guess you can afford it?" he said, more as a question than statement.

I chose to pretend his statement was just that, and, without answering, I ran into the bathroom to fix my hair and makeup. I'd just run a brush through my tangles when the intercom sounded, the doorman alerting us that our car was ready. I quickly spritzed Estée Lauder just under each earlobe, grabbed my makeup bag to throw into my purse, and slipped on beige pumps. Makeup would have to take place in the car.

James's attitude did a one-eighty once we were on our way. "You already look beautiful," he said, caressing my knee and nuzzling my neck as I dabbed powder on my forehead and refreshed my faded lipstick.

"Thank you," I breathed, momentarily relaxing.

But the second the limo made a sharp left off Sunset and began a slow, gear-grinding ascent up the narrow cliff-like driveway to the très chi-chi restaurant high on the hill, my nerves came back. It felt like an ulcer formed right then and there in the pit of my empty stomach.

"Looks like we're here!" James said, so excited he opened the door before the limo had completely stopped.

I immediately felt underdressed. The woman stepping out of the red Ferrari next to us was wearing a cherry satin cocktail dress with sequins at the top and diaphanous high-heeled sandals that evoked Cinderella's glass slippers.

"Rory, don't stare. We're not star-fucking tourists," James whispered, putting his arm around me.

"What? Who are they?" I didn't recognize any celebrities.

"Shhh," James said, his eyes darting around like he was embarrassed for me.

Inside, the hostess told us Mitchell and Cheryl were seated and waiting for us. She led us down a twisty hallway toward a secluded table in the back.

"James," said Mitchell, rising to give my boyfriend a firm pat on the back. Cheryl didn't stand, but we exchanged polite smiles.

"Thank you so much for inviting us out tonight. I've never been here or to the Hollywood Bowl before," I said, trying to sound gracious. I knew it meant a lot to James.

"You're welcome, dear. But really, it's nothing," he said with a smile and a wave of his hand.

"Yes, allow me to second that," James said, sounding strangely formal. "And please accept our apology for our tardiness."

"Please. It's nothing, only a few minutes," Mitchell said, laughing. Suddenly both James and Mitchell seemed to be speaking with slight faux British accents.

The waiter came by, asking for drink orders. Mitchell ordered an Old Fashioned for himself and a gimlet for Susan. Very "Mad Men," I thought. James ordered an Old Fashioned for himself as well, and looked at me.

I wasn't too good with alcohol on an empty stomach. "Can I just have a sparkling water?" I asked.

"Oh no, Rory, order a real drink." James laughed, but there was a hint of discomfort in his chuckle. "She'll have a gimlet too," he told the waiter.

I honestly wasn't even sure what a gimlet was.

There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone studied their menus. I decided on a Caesar salad with salmon. I couldn't eat much when I was nervous. Plus, I wanted to slim down a bit. I'd gained some weight during law school and it was all too noticeable in the dance studio mirrors. The waiter returned with our drinks. Mine looked fancier than I thought it would be. I was kind of afraid to try it, though. My only real alcohol experience was with margaritas and wine. I worried this would be strong and floor me.

After some whispering between them, Mitchell ordered duck confit for Cheryl, with a pear and goat cheese salad starter and beef Wellington for himself. James looked at me.

"I'll have the salmon Caesar salad," I said.

"As a starter, madam?" the waiter said.

"No, as a main course."

"Rory, come on. You were shopping all day. I know you haven't eaten," James said, the annoyance in his voice clear. He'd moved closer and whispered this into my cheek. "It looks like you don't respect the place they've chosen for us if you just order something simple like that. This place is hugely famous."

"But it would look worse if I couldn't finish something big, wouldn't it?" I whispered back.

"She's going to have the blackened pan-seared salmon, with a Caesar as a starter, and I'll also have the beef Wellington," James said to the waiter without giving me another look.

I tried to smile, hoping this was one of those places where everything was high-priced and your meal ended up being miniscule. Mitchell finished our order with an expensive-sounding bottle of Cabernet--expensive-sounding, I say, because he mentioned the year and that it was a reserve. I didn't know much about wine.

"So, you went shopping all day," Mitchell said to me after the waiter left. "You and Cheryl should have a lot to talk about because that's just about all she does!" He offered a hearty laugh, then immediately launched into a work conversation with James.

Cheryl and I eyed each other.

"So where did you go shopping," she asked me, immediately looking away as if the conversation already bored her.

"Oh, just this store called WorldTone in Westwood."

Her head shot back toward me. "I know it. I was there last week. Why were you there?" Her voice was snappish.

Jeez. "I decided to take a group rumba class. I thought it would be fun and...I needed to de-stress so..." I laughed nervously.

Her lips remained in a straight line. Now that I thought of it, I'd never seen her smile. It was hard to read her.

"I know you were going to take lessons at that studio, Infectious Rhythm. Have you started yet?" I hoped I didn't sound jealous. She wasn't saying much and I tended to blabber when I didn't know what else to do.

She stared at me for a few more moments before leisurely replying. "Yes, I started last week. Sasha took me to WorldTone."

Took you? Seriously?

"I'm already taking three privates a week. And Sasha's group class. Sasha's hooked me."

My heart sank. They let her take his group class that was totally advanced? I took a sip of my gimlet. It was very tart. It suited this conversation. I took another swig. "He's such a great dancer. What's he like as a teacher?" I found myself saying.

"Please. Great is far too much of an understatement," she said, still without any facial expression. I wondered if she was capable of moving her facial muscles. "He's an even more excellent teacher. So kind and patient and encouraging. He's already asked me to be his pro/am partner in a competition in Orange County next month."

My pulse quickened. I felt blood flooding my cheeks, my brain. "Partner? Oh wow. That's fantastic. He must think you're really good," I spat out. How could he honestly ask her to become his partner? And Cheryl was obviously no replacement for Xenia even if he and Xenia were on the verge of a breakup. I was beyond confused.

"Mmmm," she said, nodding, still without any hint of a smile.

"Um, so this comp--" I began, but the waiter arrived with our appetizers. The salad James had ordered for me was enormous. The croutons alone were the size of small pieces of bread from a bread basket. I felt a bit sick. I looked at my forks, trying to remember which one I was to use for starter. I fingered the one farthest to the edge, hoping I chose correctly. I glanced up at Mitchell but his eyes weren't on me. Cheryl's were, however. She seemed to read my mind. I couldn't tell if she was judging me though because of her blank expression.

"So, Aurora, I know we've met before, but remind me what you do, sweetheart," Mitchell said when the waiter left. There was something slightly skanky about this man that made me more than a little uncomfortable.

"Oh, um, I'm a lawyer too."

"Wow," he said, seeming impressed. I didn't know why since he and James were also lawyers. "And where do you work?"

"A small firm downtown."

"And what type of law?" There seemed to be something interrogating in the way he was asking each question.

"Um, well, different types. Mainly civil litigation. But we also do trusts and wills and corporate and even some criminal."

"Yeah, they just gave Rory her own pro bono case. Criminal court. She's responsible for everything herself. Wouldn't see that in a big firm," James said excitedly, though I could tell he was being defensive.

His Stanford friends liked giving me a hard time about refusing to go for the big firm life, like them. Truth was, I couldn't get a job at a big firm. I hadn't gone to a prestigious-enough school. And they knew it. I think his law school friends thought I wasn't good enough for him. But I wasn't sure what Mitchell was thinking. I wasn't sure James needed to defend my 'small firm-ness' around him.

"Guess not." Mitchell shrugged.

James looked a bit defeated. I could tell he was really trying to impress his boss.

"So I assume you're representing the defendant," Mitchell asked, sounding a bit perturbed.

"Um, yes," I answered, not sure where this was going.

"What'd he do? Gang member? Drugs? Rape?"

It was clear from the way he spoke, Mitchell was not a sympathizer of underdogs, like me. And I didn't really want to get into the details of my case. I wasn't really supposed to even if the listener was sympathetic.

"Um, well, we're soon going to start the trial. So..."

Mitchell continued to stare at me, his direct and somewhat angry gaze almost demanding an answer. Why did he need to know about my case? This man was getting a little creepier by the minute.

"Well, this one's really just a misdemeanor. It really isn't important. Anyway, I do hope to get some good experience out of it. Maybe it'll be a stepping stone to, you know, other kinds of criminal work, like maybe on the prosecution side." I didn't really want to do prosecution work but I kind of just wanted to get Mitchell off my case.

"That would be awesome if she could work at the U.S. Attorney's Office," James said.

I knew that's what he wanted me to do--prosecution-side work. I hadn't yet made up my mind.

Mitchell nodded and shrugged.

Uncomfortable silence overtook the table.

"Honey, eat," James said, pushing my plate toward me.

I was now even less hungry than before. I jabbed a piece of lettuce with my fork and placed it into my mouth.

The waiter arrived with our main courses. I nodded nonchalantly when he asked me if he could take my salad plate with the empty dishes. It was almost completely full. I hoped Mitchell didn't notice. James definitely did. I caught his glare. My piece of salmon was the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Okay, maybe not that big. But that's how it felt on seeing it. I'll never be able to finish, I thought.

"Where are you from in North Carolina?" Mitchell asked me. "My brother's a CEO at U.S. Airways in Charlotte. We get over there every other year or so. He went to Duke. Nice area, that Chapel Hill."

"Yes, it is very nice. I'm from a really small town I'm sure you never heard of, about an hour's drive east of the research triangle."

"Try me," he said.

"Okay. It's called Mebane?"

His eyes darted around as if he was trying to place it. After a few seconds, he said, "You're right, never heard of it. What's the closest city?"

"Probably Greensboro."

His eyes indicated that this registered. "Oh, yeah," he said in a low voice. "That's, that's a different area." He chortled.

I always forgot how working-class my hometown was, until an outsider reminded me.

As everyone focused on their food, there was a lull in the conversation, fortunately. James and Mitchell found something work-related to talk about. I placed a sliver of fish into my mouth and tried to resume my conversation with Cheryl. "So, it sounds like you're just taking the privates yourself? Not with Mitchell?"

She took a bite of duck and frowned.

"I mean, at the dance studio," I clarified, realizing my abrupt change of topic made little sense.

She chewed slowly, looking around the room for what seemed to be minutes.

"I just thought those lessons were for a couple," I added, feeling weird that she'd just left my question hanging. I felt like I was talking to myself.

"No. It's just me and Sasha," she finally answered. "He'd slow me down too much." She flicked her hand at Mitchell dismissively.

I laughed. She didn't.

"So, when is this competition?" I asked just as she took another bite. I bit another sliver of fish from my fork and downed the rest of my gimlet, out of nerves.

"Next month," she said without elaborating.

"Oh, and it's in Orange County?"

She exhaled deeply and cut herself another piece of meat. She seemed bothered by my questions and I didn't know why. She kept glancing at Mitchell, who was paying her no attention. I wondered if he was as annoyed with her dancing as James was with mine.

"Yes," she said after her next swallow, many moments later.

I didn't know what else to say to her. I wanted to know more about the competition, but I didn't want to set her off any more than I had. I could easily ask about the competition at the studio. I just felt strange finishing dinner in silence.

"Rory..." James pointed toward my plate.

"You're really not enjoying the food here, are you?" Mitchell said to me. James looked like he wanted to kill me.

"Oh yes, of course I am. It's delicious. I'm just not very hungry."

"Well, we need to get the check soon so we have plenty of time to brave the crowds," Mitchell said, looking at his watch.

"Eat," James whispered, pushing the plate toward me. I took another bite, but with him looking at me like the world revolved around my finishing my plate, my throat constricted. Mom and Jacqueline trying to force-feed me over my ballet-induced anorexia came back full force. The salmon began to taste like peanut butter. I tried to swallow but I could only feel sticky peanut butter lining my throat. I choked a little as the salmon went down.

"Are you okay?" Mitchell asked.

I nodded, embarrassed. But I seriously couldn't swallow the next bite. And I began feeling like I couldn't breathe either. I covered my mouth with my hand, bent down, and got up, walking toward the restroom. I didn't know where it was since I'd never been here before. I walked toward the back of the restaurant. I couldn't really ask someone with salmon lodged in my throat, so I just looked around.

"Can I help you?" a waitress asked.

I turned toward her, my face probably looking like the proverbial deer in headlights. Fortunately, right then I saw the sign marked restroom. I pointed at it and nodded a thank you at her.

It wasn't until I was inside the elegant stall, past the attendant, out of everyone's eyes, that I was finally able to get all the food down. I stood in the bathroom for minutes, thankful I could breathe, but humiliated.

When I walked to the sink, the attendant handed me a towel. I looked in the mirror to see I had mascara and eyeliner well below my bottom eyelids. Probably from sweating over the peanut butter memory, if not the entire stressful conversation with Cheryl. I looked ridiculous. My humiliation turned to anger at James. He'd ordered me all that food. I could have polished off most of the Caesar salad. Yes, Mitchell was his boss and held the keys to his future, to an extent, but was he seriously going to be that upset if I didn't finish my plate?

I asked the attendant for a paper towel, pointing to my smudged mascara.

"No, it's all right, ma'am," she said with a laugh. "You can use that." She pointed to the towel.

I thanked her, wiped my face, and handed her the now mascara-smudged towel. I felt badly when I left because I hadn't brought my purse, so couldn't tip her.

When I returned to the table, everyone had finished their dinner but me and Cheryl. And she was almost done.

"We thought you fell in!" hollered Mitchell as I sat back down.

"No." I laughed. "I'm fine, thanks."

"We don't have much time until the concert begins," Mitchell said. "Let's chow down, ladies."

"I'm finished." I pushed my plate toward James. I wasn't going to be bullied into eating more and I was tired of being on the defensive. "You're welcome to it. It was delicious," I said to James.

He took a deep breath, as if giving up on me. "I'm full from the Wellington but I just can't let this go to waste," he said, cutting into the fish. He ate the entire plate in all of five minutes.

***

The concert was a lovely contrast to dinner. I completely lost my self-consciousness in the music. They played a classical variety--Mozart, Beethoven, Stravinsky, Prokofiev, and Tchaikovsky. When they played the White Swan pas de deux from "Swan Lake," I felt a lump at the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and was transported. I remembered trying hard to learn the steps, to make myself look as swan-like as possible--feathery and with flowing wings--and to convey Odette's tragic story to the prince while at the same time showing the audience she was falling in love with him, which would ultimately break her free of the spell the evil sorcerer had cast. My dance school had performed a shortened version of it, and I'd scored the female lead. I loved the solo violin, which I'd interpreted as the swan's soulful voice, before the orchestra swelled into a full crescendo to convey the prince's love for her.

After they finished the Tchaikovsky and turned to a Vivaldi piece, I opened my eyes, the spell broken. I saw Mitchell yawning and Cheryl fixated on her iPhone. I wondered what dance Sasha and Xenia had performed tonight and how gorgeous they must have been.

We shared the limo home with Mitchell and Cheryl. They were going to take us out for after-dinner drinks but the ride home was taking so long because of the traffic jam around the Bowl that they decided to toast the performance in the car. Mitchell found what he pronounced "a nice bottle of Scotch" in the limo's bar, and poured us all a little in round-bellied glasses.

One sip and I felt like I was going to pass out. I had next to nothing in my stomach and this was strong.

"I hope you liked the performance better than dinner?" Mitchell said to me.

"Oh I loved it! I thought they played so well," I enthused, a little lightheaded already from the drink. "Especially the 'Swan Lake' White Swan pas de deux. It's my favorite Tchaikovsky."

"'Swan Lake'? That wasn't in there," Mitchell said with a laugh.

"Yes, it was toward the end."

"No, it wasn't," he said firmly, seeming bothered. He took out his program and began reading the pieces listed. One of the pieces was called simply "Tchaikovsky medley."

"Right, it was in that," I said as he listed it.

"No. We've seen that ballet many, many times. Cheryl loves it, right honey?" He laughed, patting her knee. She looked out the window, ignoring us. "Believe me, I would have recognized it," he said.

He wasn't yelling but his voice was slightly raised and he said this with such an authoritative air, I decided not to continue arguing with him. I said nothing in response. But he kept looking at me as if he wanted me to admit I was wrong. James looked at me too, his eyes pleading.

I know it because I've danced it, I wanted badly to say. But the words stuck in my mouth. I said nothing. Instead I peered out the window, trying to take my mind off my anger, watching Hollywood blur by.

We passed a crowded area, the entrance to another restaurant on a hill. I soon realized it was the Chateau Marmont, famous because celebrities often stayed there, and because John Belushi overdosed in one of the rooms. There were lots of people milling about.

And then I saw him. My eyes stopped, along with my heart. Sasha, dressed in a blazing sharp midnight black tux, his slicked-back hair grazing his shoulders, was taking a set of keys from a valet. Both men stood in front of a jet black Porsche. I felt a flame alight between my legs, and squirmed.

Cheryl's eyes widened. She saw the same thing, though she said nothing.

"Hey, isn't that your dance instructor?" Mitchell said to her.

"Looks like him," she said, her voice so low it was almost inaudible.

Sasha took the keys and began to get into the driver's side of the hot car.

"What the hell's he doing?" Mitchell gasped.

The car began to pull out. I struggled to look but couldn't see anyone in the passenger seat. The windows were tinted.

"Whose car is he taking?" Mitchell seemed a little too hot and bothered.

"Looks like it's his," James said, now straining to look.

Mitchell guffawed. "He's a ballroom dance teacher!"

"It's probably a rental." James shrugged, clearly not caring as much as Mitchell.

"Yeah, but still. Those cars are expensive even for one night. How the hell much are we paying him?" Though he chuckled, there was a tinge of anger in his voice.

Cheryl continued to look out the window, her jaw clenched and her eyes turning glassy.
Chapter 9

"How was the party? Did Sasha and Xenia dance? What did Mitsi perform?" I spit out, rushing Rajiv the second I saw him Monday night.

"Hello to you too." He laughed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't have a great time Saturday night, and I'm kicking myself for missing it."

"You're going to kick yourself worse if you talk to me."

"Ugh, that good?"

"I've just...I've just never seen anything like it," he said, looking up and around the room in awe.

"Of...which couple?" I asked.

"Rory! Sasha and Xenia, of course! They did a medley. One of each Latin dance. I'm just...oh wow, floored. No words."

So they hadn't broken up. I felt a lump form in my throat. But I understood Rajiv's emotions exactly. Inexplicably, sometimes when I saw truly beyond-this-world dancing--or art of any kind--I'd drop into a short-lived but serious blue funk.

"You went to WorldTone!" Kendra bellowed when I rotated to her, drawing me out of my momentary depression.

"Oh my gosh, four pairs! All are a totally different fit, of course."

"I likey these," she said, looking down at my toe-squeezing, circulation-stopping but medium-heeled pair.

"Oh, I have a question for you," I said.

"Shoot."

"I met this woman Saturday night who just started taking lessons with Sasha and she said she's going to compete with him soon. But, I mean, I've seen her dance and she's a total beginner. And he's still apparently with Xenia..."

"No, she's talking about a pro/am comp. Students can compete against each other with their teachers. The student competes in her level, and there are several different levels. She's probably in the bronze division if she just started. There's one coming up in Orange County real soon."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what she said." I felt a lot better now knowing what Cheryl was talking about. Of course she wasn't replacing Xenia. Still, I couldn't help but feel a stroke of jealousy. How amazing it would be to dance with Sasha in a competition. Yet I knew without even asking the cost that I didn't have that kind of money. Especially not after spending so much on blasted training shoes.

"You should absolutely come and watch. Josie and I are competing too. As amateurs, not pro/am," she added.

"Oh cool. I definitely will be there!"

"Yeah, it's two weeks from Saturday. That's why we've been practicing like crazy in the practice room. You should come up there again with us tonight."

"I am. Gonna practice myself. Already reserved my spot on the floor," I said as Mitsi called for us to rotate.

"Ooooh, look at you. Bitten by the ballroom bug already!"

It had cost fifteen dollars to reserve an hour of a small square of floor in that room. It was a good way both for me to practice and be in the presence of His Majesty.

To my simultaneous shock, horror, and thrill, they'd assigned me to a space right next to Sasha and Xenia. The mere sight of him propelled a series of tingles down my spine. How was I ever going to concentrate on my own image in the mirror, or keep myself from being too intimidated to practice seriously? But he was so intensely focused on their dancing, he didn't even seem to see me. I took a breath and sat down on a nearby bench to change shoes and dress my wounds, as the initial pair of shoes had already blistered and bloodied my feet.

After doctoring myself all up, I sauntered out to my square, and looked at myself in the mirror. My chest was bigger than Xenia's. I'd developed early. When I was twelve, I was bigger than all the other girls in ballet class. The headmistress had told me if I was going to be serious about a ballet career, I'd need to start dieting and make sure I "kept those down." She'd pointed to my chest. I was at that age when girls started to gain weight rapidly. I'd look at myself in the mirror in black leotard and pink tights and see hips, breasts, and thighs that none of the other girls had yet. I'd felt their laughter. I'd been determined to do everything in my power to stop the weight gain.

"Earth to Rory," I heard Kendra say before I spotted her waving at me in the mirror, laughing. "You okay?" she mouthed.

I nodded and smiled. No obsessing over other bodies in the mirror, I told myself. Female bodies, anyway.

I refocused on myself, forcing myself not to look at Xenia. I immediately sensed his attention. I shifted my eyes, and connected with his gaze in the mirror. His eyes were large and dark blue, like the ocean. He was looking so intently at me, it was as if he was looking right into me. My heart fluttered and I gasped. He blinked hard and when he reopened his eyes, returned his focus to Xenia. Shaken, I forced myself to look at my own body. What in the world was wrong with me? I couldn't let this man disrupt my thoughts so.

I tried hard to focus solely on myself, to practice my rumba basic. But I couldn't get my hips and rib cage to move quite like Mitsi's. I looked too straight; there wasn't enough fluidity in my torso. I didn't have that grounded quality at all. I looked like a ballerina making a pathetic attempt at Latin dance. I placed my hands on my shoulders and pressed down, like Mitsi had. I tried again. It was better. But I again sensed attention on me--his attention--and felt stupid. What kind of idiot needed someone to literally press down on her shoulders to remain properly grounded?

But Mitsi had told me something at the end of the last class, after I'd danced with her. She'd told me it might help to visualize. Rumba's a dance that originated from the slaves, she'd explained. The movement came from slave women walking from the drinking wells to their tribes, carrying heavy water jugs atop their shoulders. Think of how they would look carrying those loads, she'd said. Think of how grounded their bodies would be, how their hips would drive into the ground with each step. I tried hard to do that in my head, in my mind's eye. No one could tell what I was thinking so I wouldn't feel stupid. At least I didn't think anyone could read my thoughts.

Don't be so straight-backed, I told myself. How does a woman carry a heavy load? I began to move in the rumba basic. It was actually pretty hard since the music blaring over the speakers was a fast-paced jive another couple was practicing. I'd have to bring headphones with a rumba-loaded iPod like the others. For now I tried hard to hear the music in my head. Quick quick sloooow, quick quick, sloooow, I said to myself, moving in unison with the numbers in my head. I tried hard to ground my weight and settle into my hip during the slow movements.

I sensed his gaze again. I didn't know if it was only in my mind, but it was damn hard to concentrate. I closed my eyes to ignore it. But soon I couldn't help myself and peeked. The second I glanced at him, his eyes darted straight from Xenia's mirrored reflection to mine, his pupils piercing me. Another bolt of electricity surged through me from head to toe. I felt myself jump. Literally. Embarrassing.

I forced my gaze back to my own reflection. I closed my eyes again and did several more box steps. Suddenly I heard rising voices speaking Russian. I opened my eyes. Xenia was standing with her hands on her hips, yelling at Sasha. He also had his hands on his hips, and was tapping his foot on the ground. Pretty hard. When she caught me looking back and forth between them, she shot me a glare nasty enough to make my stomach drop several inches, maybe a foot. I closed my eyes, trying to block them out. I tried again to concentrate on my imaginary rumba music in my head.

He yelled. The floor vibrated. She yelled back. Their back and forth became angrier and, soon it grew closer to me. I opened my eyes to check where they were relative to me.

He looked right at me, into me, his eyes the most wide and intense I'd seen them yet. My pulse fluttered so much I actually put my hand to my chest to stop it, futilely, like Giselle in the ballet. Would I ever get used to this man's gaze? Xenia's head whiplashed toward me. She looked me up and down several times, her green cat eyes getting angrier with each once-over. She was so beautiful. She made me feel all of two inches tall. I wasn't sure why she was looking at me, if I was perhaps imagining her gaze on me. But then she pointed right at me, laughed heartily, and turned back toward him saying something that sounded very nasty.

They couldn't possibly be talking about me. My ridiculous self-consciousness was really getting the better of me. I took a breath and tried to focus on myself in the mirror again. Again, I tried the rumba basic, focusing my thoughts on the slave women, feeling the weight on my shoulders, pushing movement down toward my rib cage, then toward my hips. But of course the feeling that they might be talking about me for lord knows what reason made me feel intensely stupid, like a ridiculous adult student who couldn't get it right to save my life. I kept screwing up something that seemed so simple. How could I not move my hips properly? This was ludicrous.

Oh screw it, I said to myself. I'll do something I know I can actually do. I placed my feet into fourth position, right foot behind left, and bent my knees deeply in preparation for a multiple pirouette. I rounded my arms gracefully and whipped myself around as fast as I could, lifting my back leg in an attitude position, bent at the knee, pointed at the toe. I made it around three times. Obviously not Baryshnikov, but not bad for not having practiced in a while. And, more, I'd done it not in ballet shoes, but in those crazy-ass Latin stilettos. The suede on the shoe's bottoms actually did make the shoes lighter, more easy to glide over, and in turning, to rotate on the polished wood floor. It felt good. I always loved pirouettes. Turns were actually my favorite thing to do.

I tried again, this time focusing on perfecting the turned-out position of my back leg, raising it a bit higher. This time I made it around almost four rotations.

Yes, I still have it in me!

I was up to eight at the time I quit ballet. I wondered if I still could. It would take practice. And stretching. Man, raising my leg higher made me realize how out of shape I was. I needed to stretch out my hips and my hamstrings or I was going to hurt myself. I reached down and touched my ankles to stretch my hamstrings. When I lifted myself back up, I felt eyes on me. But not just Sasha's. A lot of eyes. I glanced around. Several people were looking straight at me, with bemused expressions. Perhaps sticking my butt in the air while I bent down to grab my ankles was uncouth. I had a leotard on, though. No one could see underwear. We did such stretches all the time in ballet. I had to remember all dance was not the same--customs varied. I had to be mindful of that, I thought as I felt my face turn to crimson.

I returned to my rumba practice, and felt gazes shift back to wherever they'd been before. All but one. Or two. No, I wouldn't look at them. I forced myself to refocus my own pathetic inability to move my rib cage. I was going to conquer this, with Sasha penetrating me with his eyes and Xenia sending me daggers or not. I could do this. I took a deep breath, and kept my eyes open but directed my thoughts to my mental visual, the slave women with the heavy water buckets. I blocked everything else out. And I swear it was working. Or at least it was beginning to work.

I couldn't help it. His presence was too strong, too demanding. I looked. He had a cocked, crooked smile, his lips curled up at one edge. And one eyebrow was raised, halfway up his forehead. I had no idea how to read that expression.

Once again, I refocused on myself, began another box step. But then I glimpsed her glare. It was brutal. And it was directed right at me. They weren't moving; they seemed to be at some sort of impasse, their--or at least her--negative energy directed solely at me. I couldn't move so they'd be out of my line of vision since this was the space I'd been assigned. Once again, I closed my eyes and tried to feel the movement of the woman bearing a heavy load atop her shoulders. I tried to move my upper body first, then, bring my lower body in line to bear the weight, slowly settling into the hip. I tried to lose myself in the image of this woman. I didn't know how I looked but I felt I was sensing the movement more and more organically now. It actually began to feel good.

Suddenly, I felt a literal weight on my shoulder. I opened my eyes. Sasha was standing right behind me, cupping my shoulder with his palm. Ridiculously, I gasped. I couldn't help it.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you," he said as before, carefully enunciating his near-perfectly American-accented English.

I opened my mouth to speak but no words would emerge.

"I don't mean to disturb your practice, but I was wondering if you could very briefly help me with something?"

He was so sincere. And genteel. And his English grammar so immaculate. How could I possibly help him? I laughed nervously. It came out as a guffaw. "Um, sure," I stopped tittering long enough to say.

"Thank you. I just want to demonstrate sometshing for my partner." This was the first I noticed of any kind of an English blunder. He had difficulty pronouncing a "th" sound.

It was so sweet, it made me giggle. Okay, stop it, I told myself. I followed his pointed index finger to Xenia. She stood with her arms crossed, her mouth a straight line. That made me stop.

He held his arms out to me, inviting me into a closed ballroom position. I stepped forward, my heart thumping in my rib cage with such vigor I was sure he'd be able to feel it. He put his hand securely around my back, his fingers gently but firmly pressing into the muscle surrounding my shoulder blade, and laced the fingers of his left hand through my right. Just like the first night.

Again his hands were large, his skin silky soft. He slowly shifted his weight. As he did so, I shifted with him. His fingers under my shoulder blade guided me to move first to my right, then to take a step back, then to the left, then a step toward him--forming a perfect rumba box. I was so connected to him, I felt his hips move, even though our hips weren't touching. Somehow I could feel his pelvis contract and his upper body turn with each step. I started to emulate his movements without even thinking, just because of our solid connection. I moved my rib cage with his, then my hips. His body was so rooted in the ground, mine naturally--finally--became grounded as well.

He looked into my eyes, now from a very close distance. "Very good," he said. I thought I might melt. But before I could get too lost in that thought, he asked, "Ready?"

What?

His eyes widened, his smile grew wild and his body electrified. Adrenaline somehow charged from his body to mine.

"Let's do it," he said with a raised eyebrow and a sly smile that made my lower belly fill with hot liquid in a nanosecond. He lifted one hand, indicating I was to spin, and nudged me ever so slightly on my back shoulder blade with his other, letting me know which direction he wanted me to go in. He wanted me to do what we'd done together before at The Beverly Hilton, for some reason.

Without thinking, I lifted my weight toward the balls of my feet so I could turn more quickly and easily, and spun under his arms. Once, then again and again and again, like I'd done before. But he had me going faster. And longer.

The room became a complete blur. I rose even higher on the balls of my feet, nearly to my toes, so I could attain the speed he wanted. I felt the Latin sandals begin to pinch my toes and the straps dig into my ankles. But I put it out of my mind, and pretended I was dancing in ballet slippers. I could feel my practice skirt billowing. I prayed the crotch of my leotard wasn't drenched.

"Whoa, that's a tornado if I ever saw one!" I heard Kendra shout.

Finally, he slowed, and, with his left arm, flung me around, backward, into his right arm, which was rounded to catch my fall. I arched back into his frame and he bent down, taking me down into the same deep dip we'd done before. Now I trusted him completely to hold me up. I raised my leg as high as I could, and lifted up onto relevé with my foot that was still on the ground to get an even higher line. I held my arm out as well, fingers gracefully rounded, in Balanchine form.

Laughter turned to wild applause, with some hoots and woots, even. I hadn't realized how out of breath I was until I lay in his arm in that deep dip for several seconds. It felt good, though. I was really energized and ready to go at it again. I looked up at him. He was smiling out at his audience, eyebrows raised. He was seriously on fire. He looked down at me. It wasn't until his beatific smile shone down on me that I started to feel very wobbly kneed.

It was then he chose to pull me up, and out of my reverie. Once I was standing--barely--he simply gave me a polite nod as if to thank me. His fingers left mine and he backed away, and turned to Xenia. I could see her angry eyes over his shoulder. She was sending me serious daggers, making me so uneasy I had to look away. I forced my focus back to my own image in the mirror, not allowing myself to so much as glance at him even if I did sense his gaze on me again. But now I could hardly stand straight, I was so weak kneed.

Get it together, Rory.

But I couldn't eliminate their voices from my consciousness. Xenia continued yelling at him in Russian, her voice growing louder and more beseeching, his becoming softer but more final. I felt--more than saw--his arm extend toward me. It was clear their conversation in some way, however minor, involved me. I looked away. I then saw Bronislava out of the corner of my eye. She glared at Sasha. What was that about, I wondered? Maybe she was friends with Xenia. She spotted me looking at her. Making eye contact with me, she shook her head and gave me a pitying smile. What? I wondered, just as I heard a loud crack. I turned to see Xenia with her arm raised at Sasha's face, his cheek reddening. She raised her hand again and smacked him straight across the face, on the other cheek, before stomping off in my direction.

As she stormed toward me, I initially thought she'd hit me as well. I quickly backed out of her path.

She didn't touch me, thankfully. But as she passed she looked at me.

"Horrible," she said in heavily accented English. "He use you, mere student, to riddle me, both us." Tears were beginning to puddle on her lower lids. She looked at Bronislava, who continued to glare at Sasha.

Sasha looked back and forth between the three of us, his mouth in a hard, straight line, the skin of his cheek reddening. I was confused by Xenia's words. She drew in a deep breath and continued to the door, slamming it behind her.

Bronislava approached me. "You don't mind him." Her Russian accent was strong, like Xenia's, though her English was better. "It was very good turns. You are good ballerina. He's just jerk." She patted me on the back, harder than I think she meant to.

"Thank you," I said, still not understanding what was going on. She gave me another pitying smile, then returned to her partner.

I stood there dazed for a moment until I spotted his reflection in the mirror. This time he didn't look directly at me. Instead he was concentrating on himself in the mirror. But, strangely, he was doing a very basic rumba box step, the same as I had been practicing before he'd interrupted me. Of course his basic, simple as it was, was over a million times better than mine. I stood there watching him, mesmerized, literally feeling the drool begin to pool at the corner of my mouth. How could watching something so basic be so magnificent?

But right as I was getting lost in the sheer perfection of the simple steps, it dawned on me what Xenia and Bronislava were trying to tell me. Xenia was saying that he was ridiculing both her and me. Look, even the new girl can dance better than you, so you must really, really suck. And now he was driving the knife in further by imitating my silly rumba basic, something so far beneath him it wasn't even funny. I tried to blow him off and focus on myself as I returned to my box step. But my practice was ruined. I couldn't concentrate at all with him mimicking me. My hour was almost over, anyway. I grabbed my things and left, feeling my face get redder than his slapped cheek.

***

"You're really serious, aren't you?" Mitsi called out to me as I dashed through the lobby.

"What?" I stopped so abruptly I nearly tripped over myself.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone focus on the basic so much," she said with a light laugh, taking my mind momentarily off Sasha.

I realized I must look kind of crazed to be practicing basic footwork in what was really a social dance to the extent I was, especially when it wasn't like I didn't have the actual step down. It was the movement in the rest of my body that I couldn't perfect. "I...I guess I'm just a perfectionist," I said, trying to laugh with her, though I was still reeling from the sting of what I now realized was, so obviously, Sasha insulting me.

"Well, you'll learn how to dance socially a lot better if you come to the practice parties," she said.

"Oh I know. I'm going to go to those."

"No you're not." She laughed. "You just skipped a party to practice on your own in the private room!"

"Well..." Okay, she'd caught me. I tried to come up with something quickly lest she figure out my Sasha obsession. "It's just...I feel at the beginning stages you need to develop proper technique or you're never going to be a proper partner..."

Now she completely burst out laughing. "No one cares about you moving your rib cage perfectly at a wedding or in a club. They just care that you can follow."

"Oh, well..." I really didn't have anything.

"I know most of the male students in class aren't too good. Guys learn at a slower rate than girls, generally. But you'll meet more advanced ones in the party. Seriously, everyone comes."

I kept expecting her to mention Sasha. But she didn't. Time to nip this in the bud with her, be the first to mention it so she wouldn't start any gossip. "To be honest, I saw a pair of the pro dancers from this studio at my boyfriend's holiday party. I used to be a dancer, well a dance student anyway, and I was just really blown away by them. And it made me, I dunno, want to take up dancing again. I mean, in a serious way, you know?"

"Yeah, I do. So you want to dance competitively," she said more than asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, I really do." This was the first time I'd really thought about it, and admitted it to myself.

"So why aren't you in the international-style classes?"

"They told me I had to take three months of each level in social first."

She burst out laughing again. "No, no, no, that's just what they say to beginners."

"But that's what I am."

"No, no, no--real beginners. They have to say that because they don't want people advancing themselves too quickly or it won't be fair to the more advanced students, and the teachers. Believe me, they don't mean people who have dance background and are naturally going to pick things up quickly."

I held my head higher. She thought I was a natural! This was exactly what I needed after the Sasha incident.

"Start the international-style classes next month," she said assertively. "If they give you a problem, I'll talk to them."

"Oh my gosh, thank you so much!"

She'd caused a complete one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in my self-esteem. I practically bourréed, swan-like, on my toes, through the parking garage. Less than a minute ago, I wasn't sure I wanted anything to do with the obnoxious, condescending Sasha anymore. But no, I loved dance. Outside of Sasha, even. This was beyond him. Screw him and his misogynistic attempts to play women against each other. Other people--professional dancers--thought I had talent. I wanted to dance again for myself.
Chapter 10

Even after my positive experience with Mitsi, I didn't want to go into the practice room. I just didn't want to face Sasha. Or Bronislava and her pitying smile. And definitely not Xenia. So, instead I did as Mitsi originally suggested and went to the practice parties, where I tried hard to focus on my technique while dancing with fellow students.

"Something wrong?" Rajiv asked while he tried to lead me in a turn but was late in raising his arm, putting us off beat.

"No, not at all," I said, trying to be a good follower and go along with him even if we were totally out of step with the music.

"You just don't seem your usual excited self."

Oh, he meant more generally, not just with our dancing at that moment. Maybe I was more down than I'd realized about Sasha. I was angry with myself that I'd let it show, though.

"No, are you kidding? I love it here, practicing with you!" I said, and immediately afterward worried that came out more flirtatiously than I'd intended. "I mean, I think I'm just focusing because I'm so serious."

"Why?" He laughed. "Dancing is supposed to be fun."

"Yeah, but I'm a lawyer. We make everything overly serious," I said, rolling my eyes, making fun of myself.

"You need to be loose!" he said, shaking my arms. "I mean, you need to let loose, LET loose." He laughed nervously, shaking his head in shame. Now I found his worry over misspeaking hilarious and it was I who couldn't stop cracking up.

"It's okay. You're very funny, Rajiv."

He smiled bashfully, head still down. "Okay, well, glad I can lift you up." With that he stepped hard on my foot. "Oh sorry, sorry."

"It's okay!" I laughed again. But this time it was to mask pain. When I changed shoes after the party I saw that a good deal of the toenail polish from my recent pedicure had been scraped off. There was actually a bit of blood caked around the cuticle of my big right toe. I decided I needed one more visit to WorldTone, this time to get closed-toed practice sneakers.

***

"Ooh la la, senorita is getting better!" Pepe enthused when I danced with him in mambo class.

"Really?" I said in disbelief.

"Yeaahhh." His wicked, elongated laugh would have sounded lascivious if he wasn't gay. "You've been practicing and I can tell. Those steps are way more grounded than before," he said throwing his arm out on the "way."

Wow. So Mitsi's telling me to visualize women bearing a heavy load with each step I took really had helped. I told him my method and he laughed.

"Dance is very visual, sweetie. And sensual. It's all about seeing and feeling. Save a dance for me tomorrow at the practice party?"

I assured him I would.

The following night, I again forced myself to go straight to the practice party, bypassing the private practice room. Sasha could patronize the new girl all he wanted, but Pepe valued my progress. And he seemed to genuinely like me.

There were a lot more men at the mambo party than the rumba one. Mambo and its cousin, salsa, were more popular in nightclubs than other ballroom dances, and I'd gleaned they seemed more macho to some men. Not to me. Any dance where the guy was a strong lead and could quickly spin, deeply dip, and lift the girl up high was a macho dance to me! I danced the whole party. And the guys were generally pretty good--maybe because they really wanted to learn so they could go to clubs and pick up women!

I was pretty tired by the time the party was about three-quarters over. I'd just collapsed on a bench and was reaching for my water bottle when Pepe jumped out at me, seemingly right out of the darkness.

"Come on, mi chilosa, I saved this one for you!" He whisked me up before I even had a chance to unscrew the bottle's cap. There was no music yet.

"But there's no..."

Just then this crazy beat came pulsing over the speakers. Clearly, music you couldn't resist. I let Pepe pull me to the center of the floor. As soon as the song began, I recognized the voice as belonging to Gloria Estefan.

"Mi cuerpo, mi baila, mi gente," she sang out.

Pepe did a few lightning-fast basics to warm me up, then swung me out and pulled me right back, followed by a series of crazy fast spins with me going in one direction around him, then turning and going the opposite direction. Then he threw me into a dip, which, when my back was arched over his knee, I realized was not because there was a break in the music, but to give me a rest. Seconds later, he whisked me back up and did some cross-body leads back and forth with really intricate arm work, followed by some super sexy hip-twisting swivels. I honestly had no idea how, but I was able to keep up with him, do what he wanted, to follow every lead. My feet just followed my body and my body followed his.

"Do an arabesque penchée when I push you back, okay?" he whispered.

"Uh..." I wondered if I'd heard right. He wasn't exactly a ballet teacher. Was I having some weird misplaced memory?

"I know you can do it!" he said, too excited for me to back out now.

"Okay." I took a deep breath, hoping I'd heard correctly and wasn't going to throw either of us out. He pushed me back like a rubber band, still holding my hands in front of me, and pulling me down a bit. I lifted my right leg up, up in the air as far as it would go. I pointed my toe and fanned my foot at the ankle so it would look more sleek and sexy.

"Belleza!" he shrieked, looking at my leg in the air.

Everyone ooohed and aaahed. I would have started laughing if I wasn't so nervous I'd screw up before the dance was over. He began raising his arms, indicating for me to put my leg down and come back to two feet. Then he did some more spins, this time in a row.

"Let's end on a fish dive! You know it?" he yelled in my ear.

Was he serious? That was a crazy-hard lift. And how did he know I'd be familiar with it?

"Now," he shouted without waiting for my response.

I stood in front of him, my body sideways to his. He bent his knee and began to reach under my legs with his left hand. I did a little plié and jumped into his arms, strengthening my body and holding myself up as well as I could so I wouldn't be too heavy. I had definitely gained weight since my ballet days. What the hell--he was a muscly guy. I'd trust him with my weight. I arched my back, crossed one leg behind the other and pointed both toes, then reached out toward the front of the room. I now saw we had an audience. I lifted my neck as gracefully as I could, while he dipped my torso toward the floor, and raised my legs high into the air. I loved this lift. Done right, it was truly beautiful.

Right as my legs went up and my fingers grazed the floor, the music stopped. Everyone broke into wild applause, replete with "woots" and "oohs" and "ahhs."

"Yeeees! See, I'm strong, baby!" Pepe said, flexing his bicep after he put me down. "I knew we could do it. We rock!" He did a little splits jump in the air, then high-fived me.

"That was insane!" I heard someone say, while a hand patted me on the back. "Oh my gosh, you are amazing!" a young Asian woman said, her face alight.

"Thank you," I said, still stunned that we'd done some crazy-hard lifts without preparation or stretching, and I hadn't thrown anything out.

"Rory, I didn't know you had that in you." Rajiv seemed confounded.

"Neither did I. Honestly."

The chorus of commendations continued for a couple minutes, until the party was officially over. I had to say, it felt so unbelievably good to be performing for an audience again. A nice audience comprised of people who truly loved dance, not who wanted to judge me or use me to ridicule someone else. Now I wanted even more to dance. I was just so sorry Sasha wasn't there to see it. To see I wasn't the complete loser he thought I was.

The second my thoughts turned to him something completely eerie happened. I swear I sensed his gaze on me. My eyes darted all about the room. He was nowhere. And yet I felt exactly like I had the other night in the practice room before he asked me to dance. It was all in my head. He was all in my head. He'd penetrated my mind. Yes, I had the power to think of the man and command his presence--what was I, nuts?

***

I walked into the apartment to catch James and the same girl from before again on the couch, mid-giggle. She was practically on his lap, she was sitting so close to him.

"We're just looking at some old photos of office parties. Kind of fun to see all the celebrities we've represented over the years."

"I can't believe it. Brad Pitt!" she shrieked, now sounding very much like a teenager.

I looked back and forth between the two of them, my gaze meeting each of theirs. They looked totally innocent. I was in a weird state of feeling pumped full of adrenaline but knowing my body and brain were both tired and I had to go to bed. I excused myself and walked to the bedroom, deciding to put off thinking for now about what my boyfriend might be doing with a likely underage, or near underage girl, alone in our apartment.

Being honest with myself, I knew then in my heart of hearts that a breakup was imminent. I would never, ever cheat on anyone. But I'd developed a serious passion for someone else, even if it was currently restricted to his dancing. And James clearly was becoming more dissatisfied with me by the day. We hardly saw each other. We slept in the same bed but often not even at the same times. We weren't having an actual relationship. I wasn't ready to take the first step yet, but deep down I knew it was only a matter of time. I think I just didn't have the mental energy or self-confidence to deal with the pain every breakup brings.
Chapter 11

"You heard, right?" Kendra practically shrieked when I rotated to her in rumba class.

"No, what?"

"Sasha and Xenia broke up!"

I stepped on her foot in excitement. She didn't even bother to chastise me for not following properly, and I didn't bother to apologize.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. They were in the practice room Saturday night and all of a sudden they were screaming at each other in Russian. Everyone was looking but no one except the Russians could understand what they were saying. And the Russians are all mum."

"The Russians? You mean, like Bronislava?"

"Nah, she's neutral. She could care less about him. She just rolls her eyes at all his drama." Kendra laughed. "I mean Sasha's students--like Svetlana and Anya and Boriana and, you know, all of those women who are always in his classes and go to all the competitions to cheer him on...his groupies."

I nodded, thinking of the women I'd seen in his class my first day here. Figures he has groupies, I thought.

"All of a sudden, Xenia stomped off. And never returned. Yesterday, he was having try-outs with a couple other girls in the practice room. We were watching. He's probably still doing the same tonight. You should totally watch."

Ugh. I really didn't know if I wanted to venture in there again. I was still sore after the way he'd made fun of me. I didn't want to ruin my post-Pepe high. But I didn't feel like telling Kendra what Sasha had done.

"You guys having fun back there?" Mitsi called out, smiling at us.

I caught myself in the mirror. I was midway under Kendra's arm, doing an underarm turn. Everyone else was doing an unassisted turn. We were totally doing our own thing, not bothering to go along with the class.

"Sorry," we mumbled simultaneously.

***

Of course I automatically followed Kendra into the practice room after class. I walked closely behind her, refusing to allow my eyes to stray from her and Josie, refusing to acknowledge even glimpsing Sasha's dark hair and sexy, black-clad body in my periphery. I was here for the sole purpose of judging Kendra and Josie's routine.

Of course it was impossible not to peek, particularly at the girl he was dancing with. She had a short, sassy, very red bob that set off like a firecracker every time she whipped her head around, which she did a lot. She was definitely flashy, but maybe a bit too much. His lightning-fast hip action and her explosive hair seemed to be competing with each other for attention. Your hair shouldn't be the part of you dancing the most, I thought. She wore a leotard and short skirt, with no tights underneath. She didn't need them: her legs and rear were perfectly toned and tanned on their own.

There was an older, statuesque woman with short blonde hair cut in the same style standing near them, giving commands. She had large, expressive eyes and had a regal air about her. She looked strangely familiar but I couldn't place her.

She elegantly snapped her fingers and waved her arm about like an orchestra conductor. I noticed Sasha regarding her as if she were a goddess. The way he looked at her made her all the more beautiful, and I began to long for her graceful yet commanding presence. As I looked back and forth between the two of them, Sasha glanced at me. Our eyes locked. His brow immediately furrowed and his mouth tightened, making him look suddenly very angry.

Had I done something?

"Sasha," Regal Woman called out. She reached toward him, cupped his chin in her hand, and held his face to hers. She looked very matronly, as if she were punishing a little boy for being distracted. In a flash, his attention shifted to her. But she turned her head in my direction, her beautiful eyes searching for what he must have been watching. I quickly looked back to Kendra and Josie.

I felt someone tap on my right shoulder.

"Hey, hey, mi belleza!"

I turned around to see Pepe's wide smile shining down on me.

"Oh hi!" I was surprised. I hadn't seen him here before.

"How's my star dancer?" he said, massaging my shoulders.

I giggled, wishing we were close enough to Sasha for him to hear.

"Hey, I wanna talk to you about something and I was told you'd be here."

Really? By whom?

"Now a good time?" he continued before I could ask.

"Okay, sure." I scooted down the bench. A rush of adrenaline shot up my spine.

"Don't worry, it's not bad!" He laughed, seeing the look on my face.

"Okay. Good." I smiled nervously.

"The studio's starting a mambo team and I would like to invite you to join." His tone shifted from familiar to professional but friendly. "We'll train for a few months then compete at some competitions in the area, and even some out of the area, like in Miami." He raised his eyebrows. "It's going to be a blast. It's mostly experienced dancers, and I know you're a beginner, but, from what I'm seeing, you're a quick learner. You'd be an awesome addition, Rory."

"Oh my gosh, that sounds so fun. I'm so flattered!" I gushed. But then worry set in. How much of a time commitment was this? And was there a cost?

"Time commitment's only two hours per week, on Sunday afternoons, and there's a minimal charge," he said, reading my mind. "Just twenty-five dollars a month for students taking the unlimited classes, which is you, right?"

"Not yet, but I'm going to be next month," I blurted out. Ever since Mitsi had told me to take the international-style classes, I'd had it in my mind I would take the unlimited, though I hadn't yet worked out how exactly I'd afford it. It was a good deal. And twenty-five dollars for two additional hours a week, and for a team experience, didn't seem like a lot.

"It's okay, we're not starting till next month, anyway."

"And the competitions? I just started a job..."

"They're all on weekends, so no worries," he said with a conclusory nod.

Though I'd had very little work at my job, it seemed I was going to have the Warren hearing coming up, and, if we lost, the trial. I didn't know what that was going to be like to prepare for. Well, I could do it. I'd just have to prepare early. I so loved dancing with Pepe, even just being around him. He took away my anxiety and made me forget my self-consciousness for a while. Yes, I wanted this.

"Sounds awesome--I'm so excited!"

"Awesomeness it is! Welcome aboard, cuchura!" He wrapped his arms around me, giving me a bear hug. These Latin nicknames he kept coming up with for me were a hoot. Someday I'd have to look them up.

The second Pepe left, I couldn't help but turn around and look at Sasha. He'd beat me to it. His eyes were wide and dark, his lips in a solid line. The redhead was now crying. The way he looked at me indicated it was my fault, though I knew it couldn't have been. It was just my imagination. The coach stood looking at him, her hands on her hips, shaking her head. Her gaze again followed his. This time she locked eyes with me as well.

The air in the room was suddenly stiflingly tense. I grabbed my bag and rushed to the ladies lounge. Inside were two young women who looked Russian. I thought I'd seen them in Sasha's first class that I'd happened upon. These were his groupies. They were deep in conversation, but stopped immediately when I walked in. Their eyes followed me as I walked toward a stall, went inside, and closed the door. I went to the bathroom, washed my hands and walked back through the lounge and out the door all in complete silence. Didn't they know I couldn't speak Russian?

On my way back into the practice room, I nearly had a head-on collision with the redhead. I quickly stepped aside and her large bag smacked me right in the crotch as she fled through the door.

"Watch it," she yelled at me in English but with a Russian accent.

I stood there aghast for a moment. Everyone's eyes were on me, equally aghast. Except Sasha's. He wasn't anywhere in the room. I walked back to the bench.

"Girl, you keep missing all the drama!" Kendra said to me in admonishment as she changed from ballroom to street shoes.

"What happened now?"

"First try-out together and they got into a nasty fight. I think they're done."

Wow. That was fast.

***

As I paid the parking machine, my phone's voicemail indicator beeped. I really needed to stop forgetting to check my messages. What if Gunther had another emergency? I fished the phone out of my bag to see I had four messages. Crap, I hoped it wasn't him. I had no reception below ground so I drove up to street level and began searching for a vacant side street where I could pull over and listen to messages. As I drove up and down street after street with cars fully lined on each side, my ring tone sounded, indicating I was getting a call. I looked at the screen. James. Oh, it had probably been him. Screw trying to find a damn parking space in L.A., I thought. Too nervous to talk on the phone while driving, I double-parked, turned on my hazards, and answered.

"Hi, honey," I said, trying to sound chipper. He was going to be pissed if all four of those messages were from him.

"Where are you, Rory?" he said, voice indicating he was more than a little annoyed.

"I'm just leaving the studio. I saw messages but couldn't check them under..."

"What studio?"

"The dance studio," I squeaked, my voice like a mouse. I hadn't yet told him I was now taking more than one lesson per week. "I'm sorry, I silenced my phone so it wouldn't bother--"

"Rory. It's okay. Just...I just wanted you to meet us. Stephen and Amy invited us to dinner. We're at Dominick's in West Hollywood. We've been here for over an hour waiting for you to call me back. Can you get here soon?" He was breathing deeply. He was pissed.

I so wasn't in the mood for James's law school friends tonight. They were such snobs, and I always sensed they thought I wasn't good enough for James. But I felt like I owed him something. We hadn't seen a whole lot of each other lately.

"Sure. I'm in Hollywood, so not too far. I mean, I don't think. I mean, where is it?" I was nervous and stuttering.

"San Vicente and Beverly, Rory. Dominick's. You know, Rat Pack? We've been here before and I told you that?" He sounded exasperated.

I didn't remember ever having been there but I wasn't going to argue. "Okay, be there as soon as I can," I said just as I saw a parking cop in my rearview mirror. I pulled out and headed west.

***

"Hi, so sorry I'm so late," I said as James got up to kiss me on the cheek.

As he did so, he whispered in my ear, "Rory, what are you wearing?"

I then realized I still had on my dance clothes: a long-sleeved black leotard under a cropped purple terry-cloth wrap that tied in the front, a mid-thigh-length salsa skirt, thick beige dance tights that made my legs look like a rubber Barbie doll's, and purple knit leggings that went from mid-calf to just above the knee, bottomed off with beige faux Ugg boots that rose slightly above my ankles. In other words, I most definitely did not look like I belonged in a famous L.A. restaurant for dinner. I looked down at myself. "Uh, sorry?" I said. I felt like the only thing I ever said to him was 'sorry.'

Amy looked me up and down, a bemused smile on her face. Stephen simply looked away, looking embarrassed for me. Or for James.

"I have my work clothes in the back seat. You want me to go change in the restroom?" I whispered to James.

"No. You're late enough. They don't care."

I smiled weakly and climbed into the booth. "Rory's been taking ballroom dancing lessons," James said in explanation.

"Oh," Amy said, trying to sound interested. But she didn't say anything after that so I didn't think she was.

"I hope you ate a little something before class, because we ended up ordering without you," James said.

"I did." It was a lie. I hadn't had time to eat. But I wasn't hungry, anyway. Dancing was keeping me focused and my adrenaline constantly pumping, and I just didn't feel hunger. Weight-conscious, I did feel. Not that I'd ever let my eating disorder return. Once I lost a few pounds that would be it.

"Miss, what can I get you?" the waiter said, walking by the table practically without stopping. It was pretty busy.

"Um, just a glass of sparkling water, please," I sang out as he breezed past, nodding.

"So, how's small firm life treating you?" Stephen said, his tone dripping with condescension.

"Stephen!" Amy said in mock reproach, making it clear she knew he was trying to be condescending.

I usually defended myself around them by trying to make my job sound bigger and more important than it was, but tonight I just didn't have the energy.

"My mambo teacher invited me to join the school's new team today," I began, deciding I'd simply redirect the conversation. "I think it'll be a lot of fun. They practice every Sunday and after a few months they compete at local championships and then at a big one in Miami. He actually--Pepe is his name--gave me a try-out yesterday at the practice party. I had no idea I was auditioning for something, but I had so much crazy fun dancing with him. He led me into all these spins and even a lift at the end. It's called a fish dive where the guy basically turns the girl upside down in the air. It's thrilling, to put it mildly. I was so surprised at the end to see everyone--the whole studio, I mean--had stopped dancing to watch us. And since I did well, he asked me to be on the team."

My little story was met with silence, which I knew it would be. James was open-mouthed. Amy looked sideways at Stephen. She raised her eyelids and I glanced at Stephen, who was mouthing something back to her.

When he caught my gaze he laughed and said, "Sorry, you caught us."

I looked back at James. He was staring at down at the table. He didn't look too happy. I suddenly realized what everyone must be thinking.

"Oh, I mean, he's totally gay, so it wasn't sexual, you know!" I hadn't really meant to emphasize the 'totally' and 'gay' so.

The waiter placed my Pellegrino in front of me. I took a slug. It burned, which actually felt kind of good.

"Rory," James began after a pause. "How much is this going to cost?"

My boyfriend: always the pessimist. I didn't know why he even cared. I was paying for everything.

"Good question," Stephen said with a sarcastic chuckle. "Like, she's so good, he just needs her on the team, but of course it's she who's going to be paying for this so-called privilege."

I felt my face get hot and red. I took another swig of carbonated water in an attempt to cool it.

"And I bet you'll have to pay the coach's fees for him in Miami," Stephen continued. "It looks like a free ride for him. He's a pretty clever salesman."

"Is this a USF thing?" Amy asked.

"I'm sorry?" I said, confused.

"U San Fran," she clarified.

I shook my head, not getting her.

"I mean is that how you got into it? The ballroom dancing. We didn't have that kind of thing at Stanford but I think my friend who went to UCLA was on some kind of dance team." Every time I'd ever been involved in a conversation with Amy, she never failed to bring up that she'd attended Stanford. "I figured it was a state school thing," she continued.

"I didn't go to University of San Francisco," I said. It wasn't a state school, I wanted to say but James interrupted me.

"I think those type of things are more for undergrads, not law students." James laughed.

"Oh, that's right," Amy said. "I keep forgetting you went to undergrad somewhere..." She waved her hand about dismissively. "...else. Alabama?"

"North Carolina," I said under my breath. She'd made fun of me for before for being the only one in James's circle not to go to an Ivy League school. She already knew all this.

"Right, right, right." She nodded. "And why'd you come out here just to go to San Francisco? Did you get wait-listed to a better school?"

"I went to Hastings, not USF," I said, feeling about two feet tall. I took another drink.

"I thought it was the same," she said with a shrug. "Well, anyway, Hastings is a local school too. Did you just really have a thing for California?"

"Her sister went to Stanford. That's how we met," James said.

"Oh right, right, right. I totally forgot. Sorry!" Amy said to James, looking into her glass, now embarrassed that she'd brought up a highly-charged topic.

I knew he'd once had a thing for my sister. It wasn't a secret.

"Ah, yes, the infamous Jacqueline Laudner," Stephen said with a raise of his eyebrows and a sly, sexed-up smile that made me a bit nauseous.

"Stephen," Amy said, smacking him on the arm, no teasing in her tone now.

"What's she up to these days?" Stephen continued. "After that Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals clerkship?"

"Really? Wow," Amy said.

"She's at O'Melveny in Menlo Park," James said.

"Making the big bucks," Stephen said with another raise of the eyebrows.

"Yep. She's definitely on the partnership track," James said.

I took another swig. I really didn't want to be here anymore. I'd fought with my sister as a child. We were different. I was a daddy's girl, a little ballerina. She was smart and more of a serious schoolgirl--definitely Mom's favorite. But I grew close to her after Daddy died. I began to look up to her so, after Daddy, after ballet. I came to admire her, long to be like her. She far out-performed me in college and law school, and life after law school. But every time I was around James and his friends my admiration for her began to turn into jealousy. And I hated that.

I held up my fingers to make a zero. The others were still chatting about Jackie, but Amy noticed my gesture.

She looked confused. "What's that for?"

"It cost nothing. Or next to nothing," I said.

"I'm sorry?" she said, shaking her head.

I'd captured the men's attention as well. "The dance team. It's not associated with the school. Totally separate. So it costs me nothing. I mean, other than my own costume." It was a lie, of course.

"How'd we get back to this topic again? Did I miss something?" Stephen asked.

James looked at me like he couldn't believe I was being so obnoxious.

"No, I just wanted to clarify since we left that hanging. Now, you have to excuse me. I really have to go. Early morning at the studio," I lied. I bounced up, did a little curtsy and was off. James was going to be pissed. And for some reason, I didn't care.
Chapter 12

As I expected, Mr. Warren refused to see me before we went into the judge's chambers for his competency hearing. So I couldn't explain to him anything that was about to happen.

When the bailiff called him out and Mr. Warren finally appeared, I was shocked. He wore a pressed black suit with a tie and his hair was washed and neatly combed back. He looked like a lawyer himself.

"All rise, all rise, the honorable Harold Rothstein presiding," the bailiff hollered. A small, elderly, heavily bearded judge emerged from his chambers. When he reached his desk, he gave us a nod, indicating we should be seated.

"People v. Warren?" he said after consulting the motion placed on his desk by his clerk.

I gathered my paperwork and approached the defendant's podium as a tall, thin fifty-ish woman with a short black pixie haircut with a Susan Sontag-esque gray streak down one side approached the opposite table. I smiled at her but she looked straight forward, ignoring me.

The judge nodded at me.

"Your Honor, I'm Rory Laudner for the defendant Mr. Warren, and I'm making a mot--"

"Dora Lyon for the People, Your Honor," my opponent shouted over me.

I looked at her; she narrowed her eyes at me. "I, I'm sorry, Your Honor..." I didn't know she was supposed to introduce herself until she began her response to my argument. I'd already started off on a bad foot.

"It's okay, counselor," the judge crackled. "Proceed."

"Yes, Your Honor. I'm making a motion for a competency exam. I've tried numerous times to speak with my client, Mr. Warren, and we've been unable--"

"Excuse me, excuse me, Your Honor." This was from Mr. Warren.

"Mr. Warren, you have a lawyer representing you. She will speak for you."

"Your Honor, please listen to me, please hear me out. I do not need this exam. I am ready to proceed to my trial. I am smart. I have a degree from Scottsdale College. I am competent. I am ready for my trial. I am ready to prove my innocence."

"The burden isn't on you. It's on the People to prove your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt," said the judge. "Do you understand that? Do you understand the charges against you?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I do."

"And you understand this is your attorney." The judge pointed at me.

"Yes."

"And you understand that this is the D.A. prosecuting the case against you." He pointed to Ms. Lyon.

"Yes."

"And that a jury of twelve of your peers will determine whether the D.A. has proved beyond a reasonable doubt that you are guilty of the charges against you?"

"Yes."

"I see no need for a competency exam," the judge concluded with a firm nod.

"W-w-wait. Your Honor..." I stuttered in protest. Was he really not going to hear me out?

"Ms. Laudner, I was a defense attorney once myself." This I hadn't known. "Sometimes it takes energy and several attempts to reach an agreement with your client."

"Yes, but--"

"Mr. Warren seems perfectly competent to stand trial. I'm ordering that we proceed to scheduling trial dates."

I looked down at my competency motion, at all the highlighted cases, the statement of facts detailing the times I'd met with Mr. Warren and had an impasse, my interviews of his old boss and jail officials who'd had frustratingly nonsensical conversations with him. I'd worked so hard on the motion, and he was going to deny it just because of the short interchange he'd just had with him? Granted, Warren did seem competent right now. But what about all the bizarre behavior he'd exhibited and his complete inability to communicate with me? "Your Honor, can you please hear me out on the competency motion?" My voice was shaking and squeaky.

"No. I've read your motion papers and I've heard your client. I think he may be a difficult client, but not mentally ill."

"But Your Honor, with the utmost respect, shouldn't a psychiatrist make that determ--"

"Counselor, I've made my ruling. You need to abide by it." He emphasized the "I've" and the "You," making me fear I'd offended him with my insinuation that he wasn't competent to make a mental health determination. He lowered his head so he could look me straight on, over the tops of his eyeglasses. I felt like a little girl being chastised.

I watched as Mr. Warren was escorted out of the courtroom by a bailiff. His eyes were opened wide and were almost robotically focused straight ahead. He didn't blink once.

I went outside for a short break and tried to calm myself with a Starbucks. If Mr. Warren could have a conversation with the judge like I'd just witnessed, he could do the same with me. I decided to try right then and there before he had any time to...get weird again, for lack of a better term.

I was hopeful when the guard let me back, indicating to me that Warren had agreed to see me. But he simply sat before me completely silent, looking off in the distance, either refusing or unable to make eye contact. I tried several tactics. Nothing worked. He kept his lips tightly pursed. It was almost as if someone had warned him not to talk to me or else. I had no idea how I was going to prepare a defense for him if he didn't give me any kind of explanation for what happened during the phone call. I had no defense without him.

"Please, Mr. Warren, I need your help in order to use my skills to help you."

Nothing.

Maybe the judge was right and I was an ineffective attorney for not being able to have a simple conversation with my client. He'd behaved so well toward the judge. I just sucked at being an attorney.

***

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply before starting my car. When I opened my eyes again there was condensation. I blinked the tears away. Then I turned around to back out, and saw it. My dance bag on the back seat. Tonight was registration for next month's classes at the studio! I'd nearly forgotten. I'd be able to sign up for my first set of international-style classes. And the team. With all the money I had in my account from this high-paying job I was so good at. Tears flooded my eyes, and I had to blink again, many times, to dry them enough to be able to see well.

But on my way back to work I realized that, money or not, I really needed this. I needed those classes, the studio. It was my outlet.

***

"You seem chipper tonight," Rajiv said when I rotated to him in rumba class.

I'd cheered myself up considerably since the hearing, thinking about all the classes I'd be taking on the unlimited program beginning next week.

I was actually quite bouncy. I told him about my plans. Rajiv took unlimited classes too so we'd be seeing a lot of each other. I thought he'd be excited. But I was wrong. At least about one thing.

"Pepe asked you to join the team? You didn't even have to go through try-outs?" His tone was heated. He frowned and stopped moving. I stepped on his foot.

"Oh, sorry," I said. "What try-outs?"

He stepped out of closed hold with me. "They held them over the weekend. I think they're on the second round now. You didn't even know about it?"

"No. Did you try out?"

"No, of course not. They said you had to be advanced level."

"Really? You're kidding. Because I'm only--"

"Exactly! You just started!" Rajiv was practically screaming.

I wondered if he was angry because he'd wanted to be on the team. He'd never said anything.

"Rotate," Mitsi said before I was able to ask him.

I looked back at him a few times as I danced with the next guy in line but he avoided making eye contact with me. Well, I'd talk to him later. His words made me angry at myself for letting Stephen get to me, make me think Pepe might only have offered me a spot so he'd be paid. There were clearly a lot of people who wanted that spot, who'd also pay for it. I'd actually doubted myself because of Stephen. No, that was my fault. I had to take responsibility for my own self-doubt. I just didn't understand why James seemed so unsupportive. I didn't need that from him right now.

***

The following week, the studio was officially between monthly courses and there were no classes. I was so stressed at work I couldn't have eaten if I'd wanted to. I prepared and filed my motion papers for Warren's pre-trial evidentiary hearing, all the while feeling like I had no idea what I was doing and getting no advice from Gunther. Maya was on vacation and couldn't help me. She'd given me her hotel number in Mexico but there was no way I was going to disturb her. She'd helped basket-case-me enough.

I really needed the relief from work and wasn't getting it with the studio off. Finally, on Wednesday night I decided to reserve some space in the practice room. I had to go. I wasn't really in the mood to practice my rumba basic in front of you-know-who, given what had happened last time. But I had no choice. I had to go to the studio.

I immediately spotted him in the back with the blonde regal-looking woman from before and another young woman--this one with long black hair. Almost instantaneously our gazes met. And almost instantaneously a scowl overtook his face. Ugh, what was up with him? It seemed my presence was bringing out the beast in him.

I looked away, toward myself. No, I would not let him get to me. Screw him. I was allowed to practice in the practice room too. And I was allowed to practice something as piddly and simplistic as a rumba basic. I began with cucharachas, focusing on making a perfectly grounded figure eight action with my hips.

But seconds later, I couldn't help notice in my periphery the black-haired girl's hand flying to her head. She seemed to fold in half, keeling over in some kind of anguish--mental or physical, I didn't know. He stalked away into the back corner of the room. She bent down, hands covering her eyes, apparently crying. The regal blonde stood over her, one hand on her hip, the other on the girl's shoulder.

I was watching the drama between the two women without being able to hear any words when I sensed his gaze on me again. It was so damn eerie that feeling. I shouldn't have been looking at the women, at anyone but myself. I refocused on my own hips. I pressed down on each shoulder with my fingertips the way Mitsi had and watched how my lower half instantly became more grounded. I closed my eyes and focused on the feeling of connecting my heels, ankles, calves, knees, and hips, all with the floor, and on visualizing the slave women.

I managed to stay focused on myself this way and pretend he didn't exist for a good ten minutes more. But then I heard cacophony and opened my eyes just in time to see the black-haired girl running out of the room, shoulder bag flying behind her, her face tear streaked. The regal blonde was talking to Sasha in the back of the room. The nanosecond my eyes stopped on his mirrored image, his gaze fixed on mine. My head was still pointed directly at my own image in the mirror. I wondered if he'd sensed when my eyes had refocused the same way I could sense his. Of course not, I told myself. It was all in my head. This was ridiculous.

My hip movement felt superficial again. I closed my eyes again, resumed concentrating on my visualization, on sensing my body connecting to the floor.

After a couple minutes, when the movement felt better, I took a peek at myself. My knees almost let out from under me. He was just a few feet behind me. He was again doing my rumba basic along with me. Like before. With his breathtaking mastery. I had to catch my breath. But I didn't stop this time. I kept going, trying hard to concentrate on myself, finding it impossible to take my eyes off him. He was moving perfectly in tandem with me, almost like a visual echo. Oh why was he doing this? There was no one else in the room right now. I mean, some students taking privates with teachers, but no one who mattered. No Xenia. No Bronislava. The new girl and coach were gone. What good did it do to ridicule the new girl without an audience? And if he was ridiculing me, wouldn't he be moving his hips and butt superficially, not doing everything with sheer, mouthwatering perfection?

I watched the way his hips and pelvis swiveled around in the figure eight, front, side, back to one side then the other, his eight-pack abs, his muscular but compact chest... Oh, how I wanted so badly to dance with him. To close my eyes and get lost in his body, to feel his movement commanding mine, perfecting mine.

The music changed to a fast cha-cha. But, like me, he continued dancing the slow cucharachas. I glanced ever so briefly into his eyes as if to ask him what on earth he was doing. They were focused not on my eyes but on my body. They went from my rib cage to my arms, to my waist, to my hips, at the same time he moved each of those body parts. I felt my face heat up. I must have looked like a tomato. I shifted my gaze back to his body, focusing on each movement no matter how tiny. He began to nod. I looked into his eyes again for explanation but they were still focused on my hips.

I was so mesmerized I didn't even realize how quickly the time had passed. I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Luna staring back at me.

"Your hour's over. This is my space," she snapped.

"Really?" I looked at the clock, confirming she was right. "Oh. Sorry." I shook myself out of my daze and walked toward the bench to gather my things. I turned back to take one last look at the sheer, beautiful, spectacular, mesmerizing perfection that was Sasha doing a rumba basic. But he was no longer there. I looked to the back of the room where he'd been practicing with the dark-haired woman. Nope. He was gone. Was it all in my imagination?

***

There was pandemonium in the studio lobby when the new schedule came out. Amidst a sea of grabbing hands, I managed to snatch a copy, took it outside where things were considerably saner, found a quiet bench and selected my classes, feeling excitement bubble up my chest. I could literally take classes every night from six till nine, Monday through Friday, and Saturdays and Sundays from one p.m. to four p.m. Mitsi had assured me she'd left a note at the front desk that I was to be allowed in all bronze-level international-style classes. Pepe had also left a note that I was to be admitted to all levels of his mambo classes. Hopefully there'd be no problems.

I'd checked all the classes I wanted on my form and waited in the long line to have the receptionist enter it into the computer. This was a different receptionist than the one I'd originally talked to.

"Hi," I said in my sweetest voice when it was finally my turn.

She ripped my form from my fingers, saying nothing. Her eyes scanned it, and a frown spread across her face. I took a breath, prepared for a fight. But she didn't give me one. She simply laid the form down beside her keyboard and spent the next several minutes punching away at it. After the last stab, she spun around in her rotating chair, grabbed a piece of paper emerging from the printer, spun back, and handed it to me.

"Oh, um, thank you," I said, eyeing the paper and happily seeing it dotted with the words "bronze" and "international."

"Next," she shouted, indicating for me to get out of her face, which I promptly did.

Okay, got it: to avoid a fight with the receptionist, register when the lines are far too long for her to give a flying crap.

***

Well, I wasn't completely right about that. The next day, I was drafting a hideously boring will--one of the partners had taken to giving me basic wills to draft when I had nothing else to do, and I now had a lull in my workload while waiting on the Warren hearing to be scheduled--when "Fever" begin to play on my cell phone. Yes, I'd made that my new ringtone. "Infectious Rhythm" flashed over the screen. They'd never called me. The woman who answered identified herself as Alessandra Del Toro, a co-owner of the studio.

"I'm very sorry, but after checking our records it appears our receptionist made a mistake yesterday. She signed you up for several international classes instead of social. We thought since you're new here, you probably meant to take the social first, before diving into competitive dancing?" Her voice was polite and charming and the way she spoke, she took full blame for the problem.

I took a breath. "No, I meant to sign up for the competitive classes. Mitsi and Pepe said they'd left letters of recommendation on my behalf at the front desk allowing me into those classes."

"Yes, they did. But that doesn't mean I can disregard the studio's rules. You see, we have those rules in place for the other students. If we let people into advanced group classes who are not ready to take them, they will hold the other students back. And that's not fair to our longtime clients." I could hear her polite smile as she ended each of her sentences.

"Yes, but Mitsi says I'm ready for the bronze classes--"

"I know how she feels. She really likes you. But she's only a teacher here and I can't let her change studio policy."

"But, but, but, does the policy apply to someone with substantial dance background? I catch on really quickly, I promise. I've taken ballet since I was four and I even went to North Carolina School of the Arts for my first two years of high school and got admitted to the School of American Ballet summer program, which I didn't go to because, well my dad...um." I felt tears well in the back of my throat. I didn't want to go into all that. It became crystal clear in that moment how much I really wanted this. I took another breath, trying hard to push back the tears.

"I understand." I could see her smile again. "But just the same, we'd like to see you finish the social curriculum, to get familiar with the dances and have fun with them and your classmates--"

"The unlimited plan is very expensive for me," I said, surprising myself by cutting her off. "I really want to take the classes I'm most passionate about. I'm very serious about becoming a competitive ballroom dancer. I have plenty of dance background and I believe I'm ready for the competitive classes. I should be given a chance to prove myself." Wait, what did I just say?

"Really?" Her voice was tinged not with incredulousness but with excitement.

"I promise I'll work really hard. Can't you just tell the teachers they can kick me out if I'm really holding the class back?"

Gunther passed my office, eyeing my cell phone. Obviously I was on a personal call. Crap, I have to get off.

I could hear her breathing. She sounded deep in thought. "Okay, here's the thing," she finally said. "I can relax the rules, but only for people who need the classes to help them prepare for upcoming competitions. It wouldn't make sense for me to do it otherwise. I'd have to do it for everyone or it wouldn't be fair."

"I'm preparing for upcoming mambo competitions with Pepe's team."

"Right, which is why we're letting you into the advanced mambo classes without taking level one multiple times. But to put you into the international classes, you'd need to at least be enrolled in private lessons with one of our international-style teachers with the eventual aim of competing."

Ugh, how very much I wanted that. But one hundred and twenty dollars a week for privates...

"I want Sasha," I heard myself say.

She burst out laughing. "He's our star. He hasn't had a slot open for two years. We have so many--"

"I'll take any time. Any at all. Even during the day." I couldn't believe myself. It was like my voice was operating totally independently of my brain. I couldn't afford this. And what if his only available hour was in the middle of the workday?

I heard computer keys madly clanking in the background. "Believe it or not," she said, disbelief tingeing her voice, "we just had a slot open. It's not a great time. Saturday nights at eight. Starting next week. He's off this week."

"With Sasha?" I nearly yelled.

"With Sasha," she laughed, though her voice was still dubious.

"I'll take it!"
Chapter 13

I used my last Saturday off from the studio to arm and prepare myself for my first busy week of dance. I ended up virtually buying out the discount sections of a Danskin and two Capezio stores. If I was going to be at the studio seven days a week--yikes!--I was going to need more than one set of workout clothes. I bought three pairs of yoga pants, two pairs of jazz pants, an exercise bra, three tank tops, two light sweater wraps, a ten-pack of tights, three skirts--one mid-thigh-length for salsa, one knee-length for swing, and one ankle-length for ballroom--and three leotards. And the much needed pair of dance sneakers for when the Latin stilettos hurt my feet too badly. Between the clothes, shoes, group classes, team, and private lessons--hello credit card debt. I could pay it off, I told myself. I'm not a student anymore; I'm a lawyer.

***

"Closet feels tighter than usual. Did you buy some new things?" James asked me, waking me up while he dressed for work.

I'd hung up the skirts so they wouldn't wrinkle and ended up hanging the leotards too since my two dresser drawers were starting to overflow. "Just a couple of skirts."

I heard some plastic bags crinkling and some shuffling around coming from inside the closet.

"What are you looking for?" I sat up.

More shuffling.

"James?"

"Are these...are these dance clothes?" He sounded like he might throw up out of disgust.

"Yeah. I'm taking more classes at the studio this month and just needed some clothes for practice." I hadn't bothered to tell him I was taking class every single night. He was always at work at nights, and didn't get home till late. He'd never know.

"You have like a whole new wardrobe, Rory." He peeked out from behind the closet door. His face looked the way his voice sounded.

Were leotards and salsa skirts really that disgusting?

It was Sunday morning and I was groggy. I'd planned to sleep in. "A few new skirts isn't a whole wardrobe."

He frowned. He looked like he was thinking.

Sleeping in wasn't going to be happening. I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face.

"Rory?" he said, now standing at the bathroom door, his frown deepening.

"What? Is it seriously too much space? I can move things around, James. I can buy a new chest of drawers if you want."

"Rory," he said again as if saying my name was a question in itself.

"What?"

"You're like...obsessed with this. You're always at the studio. Now our closet is filled with dance clothes. There are dance bags everywhere..."

"Come on," I said, waking up and gaining strength. "I'm only taking some evening classes. It helps me relax. I'm stressed at my job. I need relaxation. Please be supportive."

"I'm supportive of you relaxing, Rory," he said after a long pause. "It just seems like this is taking over your life. It's all you talk about."

"Well, it's my thing that I like to do. What else do you want me to talk about?"

He snickered and shook his head.

"I'm serious. I don't have much of a social life, outside of you. And you're always busy working."

He laughed again. "What about your job and your family? Your sister and mom?"

"What about them?"

"Don't they figure in your life, Rory?"

"My sister lives in San Francisco and my mom in North Carolina. It's not like we get together--"

"Does Jackie even know you're dancing again? Have you even told her?"

I shook my head. "I haven't talked to her since I started. I think. Why?"

Another sneer and disbelieving shake of the head. "That's, like, well over a month, Rory. You haven't talked to your sister in that long?"

"I don't understand why you're so interested in how often I talk to my sister."

"Just forget it." He threw his hands up and walked away.

I heard the front door slam minutes later. This was not good. I felt a lump form in my throat. I retrieved underclothes from my dresser and stepped into the shower, hoping to scrub off all the hostility and negativity.

I went back to WorldTone to try to get my mind off James. Samantha wasn't there. Unbelievably, I managed not to buy anything.

I didn't see James the rest of the day. He did text me though, telling me he needed to work into the night on an emergency case and not to wait up. I thanked him for letting me know. It was more than we'd communicated in a while.

***

I was nervously excited all day Monday at work. My dance bag was packed to the brim with two pairs of Latin shoes--and the dance sneakers as a backup--and two dance outfits in case I sweated too heavily in the first. I worked hard all day on my immensely boring wills to get my maximum number of billable hours in, so I could leave promptly at five. Since I knew I'd never make it in time during rush hour traffic, I was planning to jump on the Red Line subway, which was close to my office and dropped me off right near the studio. I was used to the subway from San Francisco and actually liked taking public transportation. The buses here, I learned early on, ran infrequently and hardly kept to their schedules. But the trains were pretty efficient and well-operated. They didn't go to very many places--like my apartment in Westwood, unfortunately. So I knew I'd have to subway back downtown to get my car, which was going to be a pain. But at least rush hour would be over by that time and traffic shouldn't be so bad.

The train was actually fun. I overheard a couple of young male actors talk about a play called "As Is" from the eighties that they were doing somewhere in NoHo--North Hollywood's newish arts district. There was an athletic-looking guy with a bike who carried a large, stainless steel water bottle that said "L.A., Green City," and there was a group of tourists who kept asking everyone where to get off for Universal Studios. Most of the people were dressed in suits or business casual attire, though, probably commuting from work like me. Though I'd hated law school, I'd liked San Francisco. I'd felt a lot more at home there than here. The train kind of made me feel like I was back there.

I got to the studio five minutes early. Amazing. I probably would have been an hour late by car. I ran into the bathroom, made sure I looked presentable, and rushed off to my first class--Bronislava's bronze international cha-cha, which was taught in the room right by the lobby, the first room I'd seen when I first walked into the studio over a month ago now.

"Careful!" Rajiv called out to me when he saw me going into the room. "Bronislava has a reputation," he whispered, looking around. "She's a total hardass. She's been known to exact corporal punishment! I can't believe you're taking her class!" He walked briskly toward the hall, shaking his head at me over his shoulder as he went, eyes open widely.

Seriously? She was that bad?

I stood in the back. There were mostly women in this class. Many of the same ones I'd seen in Sasha's class the one day I accidentally wandered into it. The hyper-flexible octogenarian stood in the back, the Asian trio, the woman wearing the fishnet stockings. Everyone but...Luna, I was thinking, until the very one walked in, head held high. She strutted straight to the center of the room, stopped smack in front of Flexible Woman, closed her eyes as if paying her no mind, and pivoted around toward the mirror, where she straightened her back and checked her reflection, turning her head right and left as if primping for a photo. If Flexible Octogenarian was perturbed, she didn't show it. She simply stepped to the side so she could have a clear view of herself in the mirror.

Damn, everyone looked so blasted serious. The tension in that room. I was actually relieved when the door swooshed open bringing a gust of air with it and she--Bronislava--walked in. Banged in is more like it. She was wearing some kind of jewelry that made a jingling sound whenever she walked, though I couldn't see it.

"Hellooooo," she announced, smiling widely as she simultaneously surveyed the room and skated to the corner, where the iPod speakers sat. "How many new people?"

I shot my hand in the air, before realizing I was the only one. Several other hands slowly began to rise around me. I didn't know it was so embarrassing to be new.

"Welcome," she said with such a large smile that on anyone else would have looked fake. Something told me, though, that she did everything in the extreme; that this was her normal smile. "You are in for shock," she then said, following this with loudest, most wicked cackle I'd ever heard.

Adrenaline shot through my chest.

She turned on the music. "Cha cha, cha cha...chachacha," a sexy female voice whispered, which was followed by a drum that pulsed that exact beat. The phrase repeated, and repeated. Quite sexy instructional music, I thought. Bronislava cranked it up and walked to the center of the room. Now when the drums sounded, the beat vibrated through your bones. Unlike in Pepe's class, there was no way anyone was missing these counts!

She taught us the basic--which was just one step to the front, three steps to the side, and a rock step backward, and, like the other teachers, demonstrated it herself many times until we all got it. Except Bronislava was a bit different. She was a master. There was something about her movement that was beyond perfection. She had serious stage presence. Like Sasha. I could tell immediately she'd won lots of championships. I got the steps easily but, again, my movement looked nothing like hers. I concentrated hard on the way her hips moved, not only from side to side but ever so slightly forward and backward, in a very subtle circular motion. It was the subtleties, the movement connecting the steps, the movement between the movement, that made the difference between superficial hip swaying and real Latin motion.

Just when I was sort of starting to get it, she pronounced, "Okay, time to take partners."

I really could have spent all class moving to that infectious beat with the sexy-voiced whispering and trying to make my movement as perfect as Bronislava's. I knew from only two courses last month that once you were dancing with someone else it became more about doing as they wanted and making sure you were following than about moving well. It seemed the goal of ballroom--even competition-style--was to be able to dance with a partner.

"Okay, here is first pattern," Bronislava said in her sexy but stern Russian accent, motioning toward Luna, who walked toward her.

Did all the teachers use Luna as their demo partner?

"We do basic, then we do open break, then underarm turn, three cha-chas forward, then cross-over breaks, then...no, we stop there. When you learn, we add more. Okay?"

No, not okay. I had no idea what she said. She held up a finger, looking directly at me, I guess indicating she'd demonstrate once so the newbies like me would get it. She turned on the music, and, damn, this was different music, and it was crazy fast, much faster than the whispering woman number. I tried hard to concentrate on every single step she demonstrated. She nicely called them out as she twisted and turned, pushed and pulled Luna around into different steps. It was over in a flash and I felt like I couldn't remember a thing.

"Okay?" she asked, nodding as if to answer her own question on our behalf. "We go!"

This was going to be the class that got me kicked out of the international curriculum, I thought, walking, head down, to my first partner.

First in my rotation was an older Asian man. He smiled politely at me and did a little bow, and I did the same.

"I'm sorry but I think I'm going to screw us up," I said.

But he only cocked his head and frowned at me. I guessed he didn't speak much English.

"One, two three, four, cha cha cha," Bronislava yelled from the middle of the room where she was dancing as a leader.

My partner took his first forward step and I took a backward one, fear welling up in me because I had no idea what came after the basic. I tried hard to remember the whole five seconds we did the basic.

My partner opened his mouth but didn't say anything. Instead he pointed toward the side, as he turned in the same direction. He must have read the fear on my face and was trying to tell me what to do.

"Oh right, thanks!" I did as he did.

But then he made a swirling motion with his hand, which I didn't understand. I stopped and looked around to see everyone doing an underarm turn.

"Oh right!" I said. But I was too late and we completely missed the third step and then we weren't connected, as we were supposed to be for the three chas. He walked toward me, pushing his arm out and I wasn't sure what that meant. So, I stood stock-still with, I assume, a huge frown contorting my entire face. He walked straight into me for his forward chas. When he reversed direction for his back chas, I followed, now realizing what I was supposed to do. But I was a beat too late, so the guy in rotation behind me bumped into me. The last step was a cross-over to the side, which again, I remembered too late. The man beside us waltzed straight into me.

"I'm so sorry," I said first to my partner, then to the man behind me and the man beside me. My partner shook his head and waved his hand in front of my face, giving me a slight smile. I imagine he meant to say no worries. I hope that's what his body language indicated, anyway. The guy behind me just harrumphed, and the guy next to me, perhaps out of embarrassment, pretended not to notice anything was awry.

"Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. That was hideous," Bronislava said after clicking off the music.

I was surprised she knew such a complicated English word. Maybe she used it a lot. I looked everywhere but at her. I'm sure she was looking right at me.

"Now I call steps when we go."

I didn't know if that would completely solve my problem since I didn't have time to memorize what the steps were supposed to consist of in the first place, but it couldn't be worse. Fortunately, there were too many women in class and not enough men, so I would have a couple rotations to stand and watch and memorize.

Or so I thought.

"Hey, you, your name?" Bronislava called in my direction.

"Um, Rory," I said hesitantly, gearing up for her 'what the hell are you doing in such an advanced class?' speech.

"Woe-y? What?"

"No, Rory." She still looked confused. "R-O-R-Y." I tried spelling. But her frown only intensified. Several others tried pronouncing it too to help her.

There were lots of different accents in this room. No one seemed to be able to say it right. I definitely wasn't giving my full name. That would have been worse. "Rory," I tried again, "starts with an R. Like roar, like a lion, and add a y." Now she looked bemused.

"You spell on paper later, 'kay?" she said, waving her arm in a very dancer-like fashion.

"Yes, that would be great," I answered a little too enthusiastically, happy I was being let off the hook for having an apparently ridiculous name.

"What I want to say you, you need to dance by yourself even if you have no partner. 'Kay? No standing doing nothing," she said sharply, like she meant business.

"Oh, yeah, I was just trying to memorize..." but as her eyes widened, my words faded. This one entertained no excuses. "Yes, I understand," I said, nodding vigorously.

"Gud." She smiled.

I still had one more rotation where I had no one to dance with so this time I danced on my own, keeping one eye on the couple beside me, trying to memorize all they did. By the time I rotated to the next guy, it went much better. Still messy but at least I knew which general direction to go in.

I'd had several practices, thankfully, by the time I rotated to Bronislava herself. She nodded and flashed me that wide smile, then began to call out "One, two..." But before she got to "three," she said to me, "No, no, no, no, no! Look at your hand." Everyone stopped to look at us.

I had no idea what I was doing wrong. She nodded toward my left hand, which was atop her left shoulder.

"This is not social dance. It's competitive!" She shrieked as if I'd violated a sacred oath.

"Sorry, this is my first..."

But she cut me off. "Ladies, what always do I say where to put hand?"

"Muscle, muscle, muscle," the class said in unison, like a chant.

This was freaky. I felt like I was part of a military drill, until everyone broke out in laughter.

"Yes, muscle," she said, laughing with them. Then she let go of me and turned around. "George!" she screamed at the guy who I'd danced with first. Dutifully, he literally ran toward her. She grabbed him and swung herself into dance position. "See, you find man's big muscle. George has big muscle!" Everyone laughed, including George. "See how I do?" she said, this time to me. She held her third finger and thumb around the widest part of George's bicep, leaving her index finger and ring finger free. Those fingers she flared up and out. "Now other hand." She nodded toward her right hand, placed in George's left hand. She closed her two middle fingers over the space between George's thumb and index finger and flared her index and pinkie fingers out.

Both of her hands looked so beautiful and dancerly. It's something you'd never think to look at specifically, but overall it gave her a much more stylish form and completed her lovely lines. I'd never think the same way again about women who social-danced with their whole hand just fisting over the guy's.

I nodded as she left George and came back to me.

"Yes, yes, very gud!" After making sure my hands were proper, she flicked on the music. "Okay, one, two, three."

And we were off.

Unbelievably, given my nerves dancing with her, I remembered all of the steps. That didn't prevent her from correcting me every millisecond of the way.

"Posture. Straight back, no head down. Arm straight, no bend. Wrist broken, no straight wrist. Foot turned out forty-five degrees on rock steps. No bounce! Too much on your toes. Put heel in ground. Shoulders down. More firm center. Arm in on underarm turn! Out you smack guy in gut! Arm out right when you step back into cha. No toes, ballerina! Use heels! Back knee meets front knee on forward cha-cha. Head up! Don't look down! Arm out on chas, get down off toes!!"

I thought the routine would never end. It felt like it lasted an hour, though it was actually only thirty seconds long. I was sweating so much, I felt like I was going to hyperventilate. I didn't even want to look at her. She was definitely going to banish me from class afterward.

"Good! You did good!" she yelled instead.

Seriously? I stood there open-mouthed. I couldn't move for a second. And I didn't until Luna, behind me in the rotation, actually pushed me.

"Rotate," she said when I turned around.

I quickly apologized and scurried over to the free space next to me where I practiced again on my own for a rotation. My next partner was this kind of goofy-faced, slightly chubby thirty-something white guy. He was one of the others who I'd noticed had raised their hands when Bronislava asked who was a newbie.

"Hey," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Cha cha cha cha. Chachacha," he whispered, imitating the singer with the seductive voice from the song we warmed up to. He raised his eyebrows with every "cha."

I think he was trying to be flirtatious but it was so goofy I couldn't help but laugh. Fortunately he laughed with me.

When we started dancing, he totally didn't know what he was doing. He was far worse than I was during the first round. He tried to lead me the wrong way by the wrong arm during the underarm turn, leaving me nearly to smack into Luna, dancing on her own. Then, he led me backward instead of forward on the triple cha cha chas. I didn't try to correct him, though. That would not have been a good follower. Plus it was really kind of funny how bad he was. He kept raising his eyebrows to me every time we did a new step as if we were about to try a kinky new sex position. I laughed the whole way through. He was definitely my much-needed comic relief for this class.

Bronislava added three new steps to the routine after the first round of rotations was finished. I thought I was going to die. My stomach grumbled. I hadn't eaten since lunch, and then I hadn't eaten very much because I was nervous for tonight. It was harder to concentrate with hunger pangs but I tried to put them out of my head.

I apologized to George again and he smiled, like he knew I'd screw up right and left. I did think I impressed him by knowing what I was doing now during the first half of the routine. The new stuff was a complete mess and I actually knocked him in the nose with my forehead going too far forward on one step and then stepped on his feet twice, but he smiled and waved his hand before I could give an apology. If only all guys could be like that.

Again, I tried to memorize the steps while I was out of rotation and by the time I rotated to Bronislava, I knew them. She flashed her slightly crazed smile when I correctly placed my thumb and middle finger around her bicep. But when I went to do the underarm turn I'd forgotten to bring my arm in close to my body. She took her right hand from its place around my back shoulder blade and smacked my elbow to force me to bring my arm in closer.

"You MUST bring arm in on underarm turn or you knock guy in gut!" she yelled.

Ouch. Rajiv had been right about the corporal punishment. Geesh, dancing could be dangerous. The sting momentarily destroyed my concentration and at one point I veered left when I was supposed to be going right.

"No!" she screamed, pushing me so hard I nearly fell.

By the time the routine was over I was in pain, out of breath--more from mental than physical exhaustion--humiliated, and terrified of her pronouncement.

"I know you are tired," she said, this time more quietly. ''But you must concentrate always. Competition dance is about endurance. But good start. Very good." She flashed her bright smile again and gave me a hard pat on the back.

I was stunned silly by her praise. I stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds. I'd really thought she was going to admonish me for advancing myself too quickly.

***

The rest of the night was a cinch compared to Bronislava's class. I was happy to be back amongst friends--namely, Rajiv and Kendra--in the social classes. Mitsi was teaching lindy hop this month and it was a lot of jumping, kicking fun. Very retro, with some Charleston moves. I felt like I was transported to the twenties. Rajiv was surprisingly good at swing. I was happy for him that he'd found his thing.

The next beginner class was hustle, in the next room over, and practically the entire swing class moved into it. The teacher was Mitsi's partner, Kenny, a very suave, good-looking older man who had a John Travolta "Saturday Night Fever" look about him. He was about Travolta's current age, but he moved incredibly well and had a lot of sex appeal. Good to know if you keep dancing, you won't lose it with age!

Hustle was all about walking like a stud--or stud-ette. At the beginning of class we just practiced walking around the room "with attitude." It was unbelievably hard for me. I just wasn't a natural at giving a badass vibe. But not many people were. Everyone cracked up looking at themselves in the mirror. But we overcame our self-consciousness when we took partners and learned the basic footwork. Kenny played the Bee Gees. The most fun partner I danced with was this guy named Eduardo. He looked like he was about fifteen years old, so when he told me he was an aerospace engineer and just got transferred to L.A. from Palo Alto, I almost fell over. He was pretty bad, as was I, but he knew it and could easily make fun of himself. Guys who could do that were the best kind to dance with.

"Woot, woot," he yelled as we flew toward each other again and again to the beat of "You Should Be Dancing," raising our arms high above our heads like birds with a wide wingspan.

The people on either side of us were not too happy as we whacked shoulders and elbows repeatedly. But he made me laugh so hard I got side cramps.

My evening ended with American foxtrot, which also involved stylized walking but of the Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire variety. Funny, because now it seems so conservative--but it was the cool cat dance of the forties, the teacher, William, explained. We did basic box steps and promenade walks to Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon," and now I felt like I was transported into an MGM musical. It was a charming dance. So far I didn't have a class I didn't love.

I was feeling quite weak by the end of the last class, though. Fortunately, I'd brought a bag of almonds, and I bought a bottle of water from the vending machine in the lobby. I collapsed on a couch in the lobby and nibbled, wondering if I could make it to the practice room to spy on Sasha tonight. I told myself I'd have him all to myself Saturday night, so I didn't absolutely have to see him tonight. But no, I couldn't imagine seriously walking out the door without getting my Sasha fix.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" Rajiv said, approaching me.

"Yeah, why?" He sounded alarmed, making me a bit alarmed as well.

"You just look really pale and overheated. You want me to run out and get you something at In-N-Out?"

"Oh no." I laughed, thinking the last thing I'd want to eat right now was greasy fast food. "I'm good with my nuts. But thanks. I appreciate it."

"Okay. But promise me you won't drive until you get your strength back. Don't drive if you feel lightheaded." I knew he was a doctor--a radiologist--but I wondered how he knew I felt lightheaded.

I was about to tell him I wouldn't be driving for a while, as I was going upstairs, but I stopped, hearing the voices of Luna and Cheryl echoing down the hall. They spoke pretty loudly, particularly Cheryl.

"Too bad he had to run out like that. What was that about?" Luna said.

"I don't know. He's just going through a lot with the Xenia breakup," Cheryl said.

Rajiv sat beside me on the couch. I turned my head in his direction while keeping one eye on the two women now standing in the middle of the lobby. He seemed to know what I was doing and didn't speak so as to distract me from their conversation.

"He really should give you an extra coaching for leaving early," Luna said.

"Oh no, really, I don't mind that. I just feel sorry for him, poor guy. He's such a wonderful man. Such a mensch, really." After this she gave a wicked little laugh that quite unnerved me. "Seriously," she said, recovering her soberness, "he deserves so much better than that, ugh, bossy little tramp."

"Cheryl!" Luna said, but with laughter in her voice.

"I know. But you don't know how much her hurting him has hurt me. We've actually grown quite close over the last month. We've spent a lot of time together and I really care about the guy."

"Oooh, is there something I don't know about?"

"Shhhhh."

I heard giggles and looked toward them. They were both peering at me, Luna glaring, Cheryl looking like the cat who'd just swallowed the canary. I smiled at her in recognition, and was about to say hello when she turned her head up, tossed her hair back, and pulled Luna away. They walked back toward the ladies lounge, glancing at me over their shoulders, whispering. I guessed they had things they didn't want others to hear. Things I didn't want to know, anyway. I had no desire to see Sasha now. I was tired, disgusted and just wanted to get home.

"Actually, I'm taking the subway," I said to Rajiv. Now I felt nauseous, but from the conversation we overheard, not the lack of food.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said shaking his head, confused.

"I'm taking the subway back to the office. The Red Line."

I heard heels clicking. I looked up to see Cheryl and Luna now breezing by, totally ignoring us, practice skirts swinging up high to reveal skimpy leotards underneath. They giggled as they ran. The door slammed shut behind them. Thank goodness they were gone.

"Again? The what?" he said.

For some reason most people I'd met here had no idea there was a Los Angeles subway. It cracked me up. Everyone in San Francisco took BART but in L.A. no one even knew the Metro. "The train. I took it from work so I wouldn't get stuck in rush hour traffic."

"Train? Where? Is it safe?"

"Yeah, it's right outside the front door of the studio," I said, laughing.

"And where are you taking it?"

"Downtown. The station's a block from my office building, where my car's parked."

He raised his eyebrows. "I live downtown and didn't even know there was a subway. Seriously, why don't I drive you? It's so easy for me since I live there."

"No, no, no, I don't want you to miss swing practice."

"It's okay. It's not that big of a deal."

I took a breath. I knew he was being protective but I got annoyed when guys did this. I was a grown woman with a law degree. I'd lived practically down the street from the Tenderloin in San Francisco. I could take care of myself. "Okay, how about this? You give me your cell phone number and I'll call you if I feel unsafe."

He nodded. "It's a deal."

***

The subway was a lot less crowded than it had been earlier in the evening but there were always enough people that I wasn't ever alone with a weirdo. The platform at my downtown stop was a little secluded but I hurried out. It wasn't a big deal. The streets of downtown were pretty dead this time of night, even with so many office workers burning the proverbial midnight oil. But I didn't have far to go and the security guard for my building was patrolling the parking lot, which made me feel safe. I waved to him as I got into my car. He waved back.

The streets of L.A. from downtown to the westside were splendidly untraveled this time of night. I got home in fifteen minutes. During rush hour it could take as much as an hour and forty-five minutes. Traffic made L.A. so stressful for me, but when there was none, it was a really beautiful city, at least in places. The high-rises lining Wilshire in my neighborhood glistened in the moonlight and looked truly majestic. I tried to focus on that instead of the conversation I'd overheard in the studio. Sasha was just a teacher, nothing more. I needed to stop caring about his love life. If he was involved with Cheryl, that was their business.

James wasn't home yet, as I'd expected. I texted Rajiv, thanking him for his concern and fell straight to sleep.
Chapter 14

I'd thought Bronislava's cha-cha was hard. I had no idea what hard was until her samba class the following night. It was all the same people as the cha-cha. It was funny how the international classes consisted of one set of students, the social another. I seemed to be the only one who crossed over.

Again, we all stood looking at ourselves in the mirror, nervously awaiting Bronislava's arrival. Like clockwork, Luna appeared seconds before the teacher, strutting straight to the middle of the room, taking center stage, oblivious to whom she was blocking in the mirror. Bronislava flew through the door behind her, a crimson-lipsticked smile slashed across her face.

"Hello, hello," she called out. "Ready for the hardest class in the studio? The beast of ballroom?" Again, she followed this with a wicked cackle that sent my heart nosediving to my stomach. "Same newbies," she said, taking her place in front of class and looking around, eyes settling on me.

"Wait, wait for me! So sorry I missed last night!" a deep-voiced person called out as the door opened. In stepped a large-framed person with gorgeous, long, plum-red hair.

"Oh gawd," said Luna to herself but not under her breath. She rolled her eyes.

"No, not you, Paulina. I said newbies. Go on, find a place," Bronislava said.

"Okay, okay, I'm cominggggg!" Paulina sang as she stumbled through the door. She wore a bright green tank top which revealed smooth light skin and an abundant amount of muscles--both pecs and biceps--with black jazz pants and the same three-inch-heeled shoes I wore but about ten sizes bigger. She walked on the insides of her feet, collapsing her arches as if she'd never walked in heels before, let alone danced in them.

"Hello!" she said to me, standing beside me. "You're new!" She towered over me. She was at least six two or six three without the shoes. She was probably in her late twenties. "I'm Paulina." She extended a very well-manicured hand to me. She wore purple nail polish, which I adored.

"I'm Rory," I said, shaking her hand.

"Rory, that's a nice name," she said pronouncing it perfectly.

"Thank you!"

"You look nervous," she said. "Don't be. Lemme let you in on a li'l secret. All bark and no bite, this one." She brushed her long hair from her face. "Okay maybe a little bite, but not too bad, honey! You'll get used to it."

I immediately loved this person.

"Oh gawd," Luna said again, more loudly, in case we hadn't heard her the first time.

"Ready?" Bronislava looked back and forth between Paulina and me.

"Bring it on, babe," Paulina shouted as my heart took another nosedive.

Bronislava raised one eyebrow, looking wickedly mischievous. She turned on this music like I'd never heard before. It had heavy percussion and consisted of several different kinds of drums. Each series of drums seemed to have a deeper, louder timbre than the last. It became more and more thrilling as the beats built to a crescendo.

"Loose knees, slight bounce," Bronislava shouted over a set of conga drums. "Right foot forward, then left foot, then right foot back, and then left goes back. Easy."

I agreed with her. The basic was really simple.

"Okay for feet. Now we do proper movement," she said. "Contract, side, expand, contract, side, expand."

All of a sudden her midsection was turning so fast she looked like a dancing cobra. She was so fluid. I tried to emulate her and ended up looking like Pee Wee Herman sticking my butt forward, then like a baboon in heat when I stuck my butt back. Seriously? This movement was so radically foreign to my body. It looked African. I'd never be able to roll my hips, my entire middle like that. But as I looked around the room I realized no one could, save Bronislava.

"See, haha! Easy!" she yelled. "Now two more steps. Easy too. Don't know why everyone says hard?" She shrugged and made a mock pouting look with her lips puffed out.

I would have laughed if I wasn't so flipping nervous.

She demonstrated two side steps, one in place, and another that traveled down the floor. Again, the steps themselves were simple. Until she showed us how our bodies were actually supposed to move, snaking about, at the speed of light. Which made me completely forget the actual steps. It looked like something out of Alvin Ailey. Or some of the West Indian troupes I'd seen tour San Francisco. I would have chalked up my total and complete inability to even conceptualize this movement to being a white girl. But Bronislava was white. And Sasha and Xenia were white. So I had no excuse.

The traveling side steps, which were called voltas, immediately became my favorite. Bronislava looked almost like a belly dancer as she traversed the perimeter of the floor, her feet moving so fast it looked like she was floating. I unconsciously stopped trying and just stood watching her, open jawed. When her eyes caught mine in the mirror I knew I was in trouble and I braced myself for her reprimands. But she just smiled at me. She knew how brilliant she was!

As with cha-cha, she demonstrated a series of four steps with Luna a whopping one time, then told us to go at it. This time I figured I could at least move my feet in the proper place; I was just hopeless with my pelvis.

"Remember, this is traveling dance. So we go around ballroom. Counterclockwise," Bronislava said right before counting "one two three" to begin.

What? I thought as the pulsing music began.

With the addition of Paulina, everyone took their same exact positions as in cha-cha. So George was my first partner again. He bowed and smiled meekly again but this time he looked truly scared of me. As he should have been. The first set of steps was stationary so those I was okay with, but when it came to the voltas, I tried to go in the same direction Bronislava had taught us in practice, since I hadn't remembered we were supposed to travel around the room in a counterclockwise trail. Hence, I went in the opposite direction of everyone else. This time George's shyness had dissipated and he used those well-developed muscles Bronislava had shown us yesterday to tug me back toward him, which was a good thing because I nearly collided with Paulina, dancing in the rotation to my left. But I was behind the beat now, so I tried to make it up by going doubly fast, which was a joke given the music played at the speed of light, anyway. You were supposed to cross your left foot over your right and twist your entire body while doing so, then uncross your feet, doing the same full twist. But I didn't have time to get my left foot entirely around my right, so I basically kicked myself in the ankle--badly, I might add.

"Oof," George said for me, holding me up.

Thank goodness for his strong arms, I thought, or I'd definitely have taken a swan dive straight into Luna. But just as I took a breath to recover, Paulina, with her long legs covering double my distance, bumped hips with me.

"So sorry, baby doll," she called out.

"It's okay," I called back, now trying to go faster to give her more space. But again, I just couldn't move my foot entirely around the other one. This time the stiletto of my left shoe came down hard on the big toe of my right foot.

"Ow," George said, again for me. This time, he looked down, too concerned about something on the floor--which later I found out was drop of my own blood I'd caused myself--to hold me up.

This propelled me to fly to my right, running smack into Luna. But she wasn't strong enough to hold us both up. She tumbled over, causing me to fall onto her. Well, the result was a domino effect. We didn't even get to the last two steps on the routine because half the room ended up the floor.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so, so sorry," I said to Luna. I was basically on top of her. Which was uncomfortable, to put it extremely mildly. I backed off as fast as I could, bumping my butt into George's chest. "Are you okay?" I asked her.

She was lying flat on the floor, one leg extended out in front of her, the other in bent attitude position, toe pointed to the back, like she was doing a snazzy jazz move. A frown slowly encompassed her entire face, every single muscle contributing to the grimace. She slowly looked down at the ground, sat up, picked up the lettuce edges of her skirt, and brushed her leotard sleeves dramatically from the elbow down to her hands. She looked as if I'd just ruined her wedding by destroying her dress, leaving it shorn all around her, though I didn't see any actual rips. Her mouth tightened so much it resembled a closed fist. She slowly looked up at me like I was the devil. She didn't really look injured.

"No, no, you're not sorry. I am. I'm the one who started it with my crazy long legs." I felt a large, mitteny palm envelop my shoulder. I looked up to see Paulina gazing down at me. "Here, let me help you, sweetheart." She extended her other hand toward me.

I took it and she swept me off my butt and onto my feet in one scoop. Wow.

"What was that new step called?" Bronislava bellowed. Her voice sounded angry but when I looked at her, it was clear she was trying hard to hide a smile.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't remember the counterclockwise motion because I've never danced samba before. I went in the wrong direction." I could hear Luna behind me. Her breath sounded fierce and loud. She sounded like a dragon. I couldn't let Paulina take responsibility.

Paulina peered around behind me, gritting her teeth. She took a breath and walked around me.

"Here, let me help you," she said to Luna, extending her hand as she'd done to me.

Luna glanced at the hand, then placed both palms on the floor and pushed herself up, completely ignoring Paulina. As soon as she was standing, she looked down at her skirt, dusting it off and smoothing out a couple wrinkles as if it were made of an expensive material. It looked to me just like the one I'd bought from Capezio.

"You could seriously injure people," she finally spoke. It wasn't clear whether she was talking to me or Paulina since her eyes remained on her skirt. Each word sliced the air like a knife.

"Okay, everyone is okay. Let's just spread out more," Bronislava commanded, brushing her arms outward. "Use every space of this room. You don't all need to be center."

I didn't make any more mistakes with the footwork or direction of movement. Still, the logistics of dancing in an oval with a large group of people took most of my mental energy. I wasn't going to be getting the body movement right any time in the near future.

But Bronislava wasn't letting me off that easy. She stared at my hips in bewilderment as I danced with her. "Tell me your name again?" Again I tried to pronounce it and spell it out for her. "Oh, right. I can't say. Well, you keep moving on your toes. The heels are never coming down. It is totally wrong. When we do voltas you look like you are doing Swan Lake. So I call you Swan Lake Samba Girl now. Haha! Everyone hear that?" she called out. "No Swan Lake! No Swan Lake Samba!" People burst out laughing.

I felt my face grow ever redder than before. But it could have been worse. At least she wasn't calling me Domino or Clumsy Girl or some such.

"'Swan Lake Samba Girl.' I love it! It's gorgeous!" Paulina said to me on the way out of the room.

"She didn't mean it as a compliment. It means I look all wrong," I said, feeling embarrassed and trying hard to laugh at myself.

"Right, but come on, it's a pretty moniker! Especially for Bronislava." I considered that, and nodded. "She totally likes you. She doesn't bother to correct people she thinks are hopeless. Believe me." Paulina patted me on the shoulder with her warm paw of a hand.

Though we'd just met I felt like we were old friends.

***

Mambo and Argentine tango were a nice relief after the stress of samba. Mambo was high energy but easy and Ron, while not as mad fun as Pepe, had a clear, straightforward way of teaching. He'd be a good team coach, I thought.

Throughout class, Kendra kept giving me funny but inscrutable looks. Once she raised her eyebrows, once she pursed her lips as if she had a secret, and once she pointed to the door, mouthing something. Rajiv noticed and shot me a raised eyebrows look as if to say he thought she was flirting with me. I shook my head. She spotted our exchange and rolled her eyes then pointed more firmly at the door, lips pursed. Very un-flirtatiously.

"Again you missed something big!" she said, practically toppling me at the door after tango ended.

"Missed what?" I said, feeling faint. Whether that was because I hadn't eaten in about nine hours or because I knew she had important info on Sasha, I didn't know.

"He chose a new partner! And she's really yummy!"

I narrowed my eyes at her. My heart pounded into my rib cage, exacerbating the nausea.

"Yep!" Kendra went on. "She's tall and thin with long, blonde hair--she looks a bit like you, now that I think of it. But she wears these totally hot tight black cat suits! Mmmmm, meow!"

Rajiv laughed. It was hard not to giggle at Kendra's enthusiasm. I felt a pang of jealousy. I knew he had to get another partner, though. He was far too good to be without one. And he probably wasn't sleeping with her since they just paired up. Well yet, anyway. And, hello, I didn't care because he wasn't mine.

"Whoa, there are a million thoughts shooting through your brain right now, girl!"

How was Kendra always able to see through my skull? It was uncanny.

"Don't worry, he's still teaching Xenia's old classes. New girl isn't a teacher here. So you'll still be in his arms in...whatever the beginner class you have with him is." She waved her arm about.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about." I could hear the hysteria in my voice.

"You didn't hear that either? That he's teaching her old bronze? Damn are you out of it!"

That meant he'd be teaching my bronze international rumba tomorrow night. My heart pounded so wildly I had to clutch my chest.

"Are you okay? You're looking a bit pale again," Rajiv said to me.

"What?" I said.

"Like last night. Have you eaten?"

"Yes, earlier. But I do want to sit down," I said. "I've just been going all day."

"Poor thing," Kendra said, patting me on the back. "You're really nervous. Don't be worried about him. He's totally different with his students than he is with his partners. He's the antithesis of a hardass. I gotta go. Good luck tomorrow night!"

"Here, they're unopened," Rajiv said, handing me a single-serve box of raisins as soon as we sat down on the lounge sofa. "They're good for you. High in iron and natural sugars to get your blood sugar up a bit." He looked truly worried.

"Thanks," I said, taking them. I knew they were high in calories but a few couldn't hurt.

"I'm not staying for the practice party since it's tango tonight and I'm not good enough yet," he said. "I'll walk you to the subway again."

I thought of going up to the practice room but I wasn't sure I was really prepared to see Sasha's new partner after Kendra's description of her. And the nausea was starting to get worse. I didn't need to be getting sick in front of them.

***

I had a queasy feeling in my belly all day at work. I went yet again to see Mr. Warren in the holding facility, to prepare for trial. And yet again, any attempts to have a meaningful communication with him were futile. He seemed almost to be getting worse. He wasn't even making eye contact with me now. He'd say things but they made no sense, and he seemed to be talking to someone in the distance. As the time for trial approached, I was starting to worry more and about how I was going to prepare a defense. Gunther simply insisted it was my case, he'd put me in charge for a reason, and he knew I could do it. Maya had been advanced to felonies and was working her first serious case. I felt badly bothering her so much.

Right before I was about to leave, one of the partners came into my office with an enormous box of documents. The court had ordered all responsive documents be produced in a case of his. He wanted me to go through them all and decide whether each was responsive to the litigation and, if so, whether it was too privileged or confidential to be seen by the other side. I'd done this kind of document review before and it was incredibly boring and incredibly tedious. I wondered if I'd have time to do it with the Warren trial coming up. I didn't want to say no to a partner, though.

***

Because of the time it had taken the partner to explain his case to me, I was twenty minutes late to quickstep. "Sorry," I mouthed to the teacher, an older, very serious-looking man, when I walked in. He blinked heavily, looked at the clock, and simply resumed class. Since there wasn't really a basic--just a series of patterns--I had a hard time catching up. Plus, butterflies were really wreaking havoc on my stomach. My next class was apparently with him. I resigned to stand in the corner watching.

"Honey, come on!" Paulina called out as she whizzed past me.

Holy crap. I hadn't even recognized her. She was a completely different person in the closed-toed, much lower-heeled ballroom shoes. Her whole body, from shoulders to toes, was perfectly shaped. She was a natural for standard ballroom! I smiled and waved at her.

"No one puts Baby in the corner!" she yelled on her second pass-by.

I laughed and clapped. "You look awesome!"

"Honey, I should. I've been dancing ballroom for eons!" she said, rolling her eyes on the last word as she glided by me a third time.

She hadn't rotated. She continued dancing with the same tall, muscly black man, who resembled the actor Idris Elba. They looked really good together. I forgot about work. But not about Sasha's rumba.

***

The nanosecond quickstep class ended, I grabbed my things and ran upstairs to the rumba room. It was already completely full. The regulars were there: Luna, practically kissing her reflection, she stood so close to the mirror; the hyper-flexible octogenarian; the trio of gorgeous, perfectly coiffed Asian women; and the Russian women I'd seen in the ladies lounge. But there were way more people. Not just women, men as well. And, unlike with the social classes, the room was devoid of chatter. Dead silence reigned supreme, and everyone stood stock-still and very straight and tall, as if there were ramrods up their backs. And everyone looked perfectly polished--the women in flashy dance skirts and leotards, the men in pressed black dance trousers.

After squeezing between two small women, I turned to see my own reflection. Crap, I looked so dumpy in comparison. I'd rushed so to get to the studio, my face and neck were covered with sweat and my hair was mussed about. I tried to palm it down as Paulina entered.

"Whoa," she said, a widening her eyes. "What the...?" She looked around, confused.

I started to wave to her but stopped at the sound of Luna's commanding voice.

"Go to the back. You're the largest," she said.

Paulina frowned at her. "At your service, madam," she said under her breath, walking toward the back.

The door opened again and yet more Russians entered, all chatty. They took places in the first row, daring to crowd even Luna. She elongated her neck and raised her chin as if to say she was above it all. There were now so many people in front of me, I couldn't see a millimeter of my reflection. No biggie, I thought. Seeing myself would only make me all the more frustrated over my inability to do the basic well enough.

When the door opened again, I couldn't see who entered, as one of the Russians had taken position directly in front of me. But I knew it was Sasha by the way the atmosphere completely changed. The Russian women stopped chatting and everyone stood up even straighter and took a breath. The tension managed to grow even thicker. The girl on my right began rapidly brushing imaginary lint off her clothing and the woman on my other side looked at me with wide eyes and raised brows. I felt like we were in a horror movie and someone was about to get chain-sawed in half, there was so much tension in that room. I longed to be near Paulina but at this point I had no idea where she was. I started to feel hot and claustrophobic.

Then, somehow, the sea of bodies in front of me parted a couple inches and I was able to see a smidgeon of his image in the mirror. It made me go wobbly-kneed. His hair was slicked back into a short ponytail and his large almond-shaped dark eyes looked out, surveying the crowd. I could have sworn he spotted me and we locked eyes for one soul-piercing second, but his gaze immediately shifted elsewhere. He didn't seem a bit fazed by the number of people. He wore form-fitting black pants and a black shirt with a deep V-neck that revealed his defined pecs and the outer edges of two tattoos snaking around his shoulders.

The music began. It was a slow beat, rich with melody. A woman's deep, throaty voice soon began. "Bésame me," she whispered in Spanish. So sexy. I remembered it from his rumba with Xenia the first time I'd ever seen them dance. A shiver went up my back.

I was so taken by the music and my memory of him that first night I almost didn't notice he was moving. I could only see his torso, and could barely see that. How was I ever going to learn anything with so many people blocking my view? I began doing the basic box step Mitsi had shown us, assuming that was what he was doing. But as I stepped to my side, I nearly tripped the girl dancing in the square foot of space next to me. She looked at me.

"Sorry." I shrugged.

Without saying anything, she looked down at my feet and frowned. I then realized the step she was doing was different; it was the step Samantha had taught me, which I vaguely remembered. It was simpler, with just a crossed foot in the front, then crossing in back, but the movement was more defined. The legs were straighter and toes more pointed as hips moved in place. I could lift my center, point my toes and straighten my knees. As I did so, I felt so much more elongated, more beautiful, more like a ballerina. And in those heels, my butt and thighs were getting a workout. I immediately liked international!

"Switch rows." It was Sasha's voice.

Several people in the front row walked to the sides of the room and then to the back. Luna stayed in place. Figures, I thought.

I could see him much better now that I was more toward the front. What he was doing was truly beautiful. His movement was quick and fluid with sexy twisting hips and rotating pelvis on the quicker beats. But when he held the fourth beat over into the next one, his movement was gloriously slow and soft. He held his arms out and brought one elbow in toward his waist as he shifted his rib cage in a kind of cross-body motion to his hips. He had so much strength in his arms. It was almost as if he held weights.

Now I could see myself better in the mirror. I was too straight and narrow. My body wasn't twisting right because my hips weren't moving in counter position to my rib cage, as his were. I tried to imitate his arms. Extending mine out, I whacked both girls on each side of me. I apologized and brought my arms in more toward my sides. I was immediately embarrassed now that I was closer to the front and he could see me. My arms looked nothing like a Latin dancer's. I naturally cupped my hands forward, and held third finger and thumb inward as if holding a teacup, in the Balanchine style, as most American students are taught. No wonder Bronislava had named me after a ballet. I looked like a ballerina totally out of her element. I tried hard to emulate him, but it wasn't taking root in my body. The ballet way was part of a muscle memory I'd have to strike from my consciousness if I didn't want to look so ridiculously out of place.

I made a point of avoiding Sasha's face. I didn't want him to see me screwing up so badly and somehow I told myself if I didn't look at him he wouldn't notice me. One glance at Luna actually made me feel better. She looked like she was folding in on herself like a paper doll. She looked nothing like a dancer; she looked weak.

We finished the song practicing the basic movement. When the music ended, he stopped and turned to us.

"Okay, ladies on my side, gentlemen facing us. I will do the ladies part first." His voice was deep and rich, like dark chocolate fudge.

It amazed me how impeccable both his accent and grammar were. Unlike other Russians I'd met, in law school and also as a frequent San Francisco Ballet-goer, when he spoke English, he remembered to add the "the." And he pronounced every syllable of every word. Judging by the way they all seemed to struggle with English, I'd deemed it a very hard language for them to learn. I wondered how hard he'd worked to master it so.

I inched toward him, as close as I could get in the throng. He pointed his toe forward. I imitated him. Though my focus was fixed on his feet, I sensed his gaze. I glanced up. His pupils pierced mine and my stomach took a nosedive.

"Are you a man?" he asked with a sly smile that melted my insides.

"I'm sorry? What?"

"I said, ladies on my side."

"Oh, oh, I'm so sorry," I stuttered. How embarrassing. I guess I'd just naturally wanted to remain focused on his beautiful face.

He continued to smile that wily grin as if he totally read my mind.

I dashed to the other side. Since the women were sardined all around him, I had to go to the very back, where, again, I couldn't see him.

"First, we do two basics, to get warmed up, then an alemana, into a natural opening out, then a fan. We'll stop there for now. Okay?"

It sounded pretty, but I had no idea what anything looked like. Everyone nodded enthusiastically as if terrified to disappoint.

"Ladies first." His voice was so deep, so smooth, so gentlemanly, so debonair. I couldn't help but swoon all over again. He didn't play the music but counted out the beats as he demonstrated our steps. "Two, three four, hold one, two, three four, hold one." And he named each step as he danced it. "Once again," he said looking directly at me with a cocked grin, sending an electric bolt to my private parts. "Okay. Now for a demonstration."

His eyes darted around the room, searching for a partner. Practically every woman in the room surrounded him, regarding him as if he had the key to eternal youth or something. Except Luna, who turned away from him. If she wasn't first pick, she wasn't going to beg.

"Sadie," he said, holding his hand out.

The older woman who could do the hyper-extended splits walked toward him, a dulcet smile covering her face. She danced perfectly. She knew all the steps and moved with confidence and smoothness as well as that ever-elusive-to-me proper Latin motion. I immediately envied her.

"Okay? Now with the music." He strutted over to the stereo.

His strut was so sexy, so full of bravado, like he knew every woman in the room wanted him, and every man wanted to be him. Of course he was right.

"Take partners," he said, returning to Sadie.

Practically every woman in the room rushed to stand at Sasha's immediate right. At first I couldn't figure out why, then realized that meant they would soon rotate to him. Oh good lord. I was going have him all to myself for an entire hour soon, so I didn't care that much. George stood to Sasha's left, holding his arms out in open position, waiting for a woman--any woman--to accept him. Poor guy, he looked so alone. With the class being so large, choosing him meant you wouldn't rotate to Sasha until toward the end of class, if at all. When he saw me approaching, he took a deep breath as if bracing himself, then forced his mouth into a slight grin, and nodded. I smiled back, nodded as well, and walked into his arms. I suddenly felt a plethora of eyes on me. I looked out to see all the women huddled on Sasha's right looking at me wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I was clearly the walking definition of insanity. Slowly they began to follow my lead, scattering about to find a man who wasn't Sasha.

Sasha counted the beats out as we danced, as well as the steps. This was so much easier than Bronislava's classes. Kendra was totally right. George looked stunned after our dance was up and I hadn't made any flubs.

"I know, can you believe I made no mistakes?" I laughed.

"No!" He shook his head, then held his hand up, palm facing me.

At first I thought he wanted another dance and went to take it, but he slapped at my hand as it came toward his. I pulled away not knowing why he was hitting at me, then realized he was high-fiving. It was so unlike him I wasn't ready.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head in embarrassment.

"Oh high five, yes, high five," I said, holding my palm up and slapping back at him. He smiled and reached up again, this time our palms connecting. I laughed. Success at last.

Though I had the steps down pat, the closer I got to Sasha in rotation, the greater the space the butterflies currently inhabiting my stomach occupied. When it came time for me to dance with the man, they were flittering their way up toward my esophagus. I took a deep breath to force them back down. But after the girl in line before me grudgingly let go of his hand, his eyes darted straight toward Sadie, behind me, bypassing me. I couldn't tell if that was on purpose or by accident.

"We're on second rotation already? Are you ready for more steps?" he called out.

Had he really not seen me? I was finding this man's behavior so confusing. Was it only my imagination that his eyes had so often locked with mine?

A chorus of enthusiastic yesses sounded throughout the room. I thought I was going to cry.

"All right, then." He extended his hand to Sadie.

"Ah, no, not yet," I heard her say behind me.

He looked confused for half a second, then seemed to follow her eyes toward me. "Oh, sorry, we have one more rotation to go." He withdrew his hand from Sadie and held it to me.

As I walked toward him, I turned back to her. "Thank you," I said. She simply nodded and smiled politely. Not one for drama or flamboyance, I thought, in contrast to all of Sasha's other women.

As I placed my right hand into his left, settling into his hold, I felt all of two feet tall. I didn't really know if I wanted to dance with him now, the way I'd just completely escaped his notice, or his pretending I did. As the music started, I looked out and over my right hand, refusing to look into his eyes. He gently pushed up on the bottom edge of my shoulder blade with the hand wrapped around my back. The nudge immediately made me grow half an inch taller.

"You need to stand up straighter. No one can dance well with bad posture. It's rule number one."

I couldn't help but break my resolution and peek into his eyes. He had a wolfish grin that said I want to devour you. Was he playing games?

"I guide you with this hand I keep on your back," he said raising his eyebrows and pushing lightly into me again. "You won't connect with me properly if you're slouching."

He raised his left arm as if he were opening a door for me, very gentlemanly. I almost sank to my knees. But his hand remained firmly on my back, his middle two fingers almost massaging me when he nudged me toward and under his raised arm. That's right, we were doing the underarm turn. My ability to think rationally had been knocked seriously awry. I was getting very weak-kneed.

"Stand straight," he commanded as he whipped me around, completing the alemana. He stopped my fast turn right as I faced him, then slowly opened his arms out to his sides. "Natural opening out," he said, reminding me of the step, rocking me backward so that I fell into his right arm, which he curved to catch me.

As he gently pressed his fingers into my side, right below my right breast, he guided me into a back rock, alongside him. Just as I was beginning to feel my sex swell, he pushed forward with the arm around my back and flung me across him. I remembered what the natural opening out was supposed to look like and managed to stay on my toes, pirouetting a hundred and eighty degrees and doing a back rock just as he caught me with his left arm, now gently but firmly placing three fingers underneath my left breast. Weird as he was acting, I wanted more than anything to move them up an inch. I resisted.

"Now the fan," he said, raising his right arm again as if he were opening a door, and guiding me inside.

I walked under him, and he whipped me around to face him. I knew there was a turn but he whisked me around with such force. The way he'd demonstrated it, there was only supposed to be one rotation but I couldn't stop myself. I don't know how many times I spun, I was feeling so lightheaded. But he stopped me abruptly by cupping both of his large hands around my waist and pulling me into him.

Talk about vertical expressions of horizontal desires. That was sexier than any actual sex I'd had with James. I felt dizzy, but whether it was because I'd just twirled around umpteen times without spotting or because we'd just had a kind of mind-blowing sex, I didn't know. How this man could do that to me with a simple press of his fingers and flick of his wrist and pull of his hands I had no blasted idea.

"You will have to get used to my strength," he said as I stumbled, trying to regain my balance. He slowly unwrapped his fingers from my waist.

I walked toward George, forcing myself not to look into Sasha's eyes, lest the liquid heat inside my belly spill out and stream down my legs.

After the second set of rotations--I didn't rotate to Sasha again--I left class feeling as if I'd had an intensive ballet class. The steps were easier and the dance slower and I'd had more time to concentrate on proper movement. My whole body was sore but not in a bad way. It was like I'd worked muscles I hadn't in a long time and everything was now a bit firmer.

"Whatever is up with you, chula?" Pepe sang at me in his mambo class later that night. "You look like the cat who just ate the canary. If I didn't know better I would think you just...well, I can't say that. I don't know you well enough yet." He laughed.

"Pepe!" I said, easily catching his drift, likely because I felt exactly as his words hinted. I gave him a playful slap. Of course I probably didn't know him well enough to do that either.

"I would think someone just flew you to the moon and back," he said. "That's what I meant to say and that's totally appropriate for a ballroom dancing studio, right!"

"Okay, yes," I said, giggling, now embarrassed I'd potentially overstepped a boundary with the slap, and also embarrassed that my feelings were obvious. It wouldn't be hard to find out I'd just come from Sasha's class.
Chapter 15

Tired and hungry though I was after the evening's classes, I found myself in the practice room. I was too exhausted to practice myself so I plopped down on a bench in front of Kendra and Josie and played spectator/cheerleader, clapping at the end of every impressive trick and phrase full of fast footwork. The bench gave me the best opportunity to spy on Sasha and his new partner without actually walking into the back room. Kendra was right; she was gorgeous. But she was slightly crazed to say this girl looked anything like me. Unfortunately. She had long, honey-blonde hair, like mine, but hers flowed all the way down to the top of her butt. And she had a long, willowy, ballerina-ish frame with arms and legs that went on forever. She looked like a spider. A beautiful spider. I tried hard to keep the stabs of jealousy at bay. She had the ideal ballerina body I'd longed for most of my life. Mine was ruined when I developed my curves. And I used to wear my hair that long but I'd cut it in law school, feeling out of place with my abnormal bunhead-length hair. It was still long, but just normal-long, not making-a-statement-about-who-I-am long.

Watching her momentarily brought me back to ballet class, to how fat I'd felt after I'd developed earlier than the other girls, especially after the headmistress, Miss Betty, told me I needed to do something about my breast size.

"They make you top heavy, will throw you off balance."

"What should I do?" I asked.

"Diet," she said and walked off.

I tried not eating, or eating very little. I'd have an apple in the morning, a handful of strawberries at night, maybe a spoonful of peanut butter at night if I was feeling weak. I lost a lot of weight but most of the meat I still had on me seemed concentrated in my breasts. And my curvy hips.

"Maybe you just need a more flattening bra," she later said, when it was clear my diet was only making me thinner in places I was already boney--like my arms and legs.

I wore a severe sports bra under my leotard, hating the feeling of having to wear this gigantic contraption in order to look like the others. I continued trying to eat as little as possible, hoping all the fat would eventually melt off my body. Breasts were only fat, so if I had no fat content, I'd have no breasts, I'd told myself.

"You wanna know all about her, don't ya?" Kendra said, catching me off guard.

"Um..."

"Oh come on, the time for bullshitting me is long past, you!" she screamed.

I laughed. She was right. I might as well just own my obsession at this point. "Do you know anything?"

"Duh!" she said, and we both cracked up. "Name is Arabelle Fonseca! She used to be a championship show dancer. You heard of her?" Kendra asked.

I shook my head.

"You really are new to ballroom! She and her old partner won Blackpool like five times in a row, but in the cabaret, show dance division, not Latin. One of the only American couples in pro ballroom. They always did these gorgeous lyrical numbers, like ballet. She'd just be continuously airborne in these amazing overhead lifts they'd do! And the girl can spin like no one's business!"

No wonder she looked so balletic. Spins, airborne, overhead lifts. All stuff I used to do. And love. My skin prickled with jealousy.

"So why'd she stop competing with him?" I said.

"He died. She was so heartbroken, word has it, she never recovered enough to find another partner. For that kind of dance, I mean. So now I guess she's going to try Latin."

"Oh, how horrible," I said, now feeling awful for being envious.

"Yeah, totally tragic. He was only twenty-five. Car accident."

"Wow." I swallowed hard, telling myself it would be so wrong to be jealous; I had to root for her and Sasha. And there was no reason not to. It wasn't like I could have him. They were a truly beautiful couple: he dark, strong and handsome; she petite, blonde and beautiful, with intoxicating arm port de bras and leg lines.

"Damn gorgeous, she is," Kendra said, mock swooning.

Okay, she wasn't helping my attempts to keep my jealousy at bay.

"Still, she's an interesting choice from Sasha's perspective," Kendra continued. "I mean, she's never danced Latin before."

"You think she'll have a problem?" I asked, sounding way too hopeful.

"Dunno. I'd have thought he'd choose someone with solid Latin experience. I mean she's drop-dead gorgeous, don't get me wrong!"

If she said it one more time, I'd make a note to step on her badly next social class.

"Guess we'll find out."

***

I was exhausted by the time Friday night rolled around. I had bronze jive, a little like swing but danced super-fast. The teacher was a young, dirty blond all-American-boy-type who was more of a hardass than he looked. He played Elvis's "Jailhouse Rock." I was so out of breath after that class ended, I thought I might pass out.

But I didn't. I managed to make it to west coast swing, a social dance with the same triple-step rhythm but danced much more slowly. We danced to "Stray Cat Strut." The teacher was a sprightly blonde girl with freckles and a chest bigger than mine, which, after Arabelle, made me feel better. Rationally, I knew I couldn't let myself fall into the body image trap again. But my subconscious was another thing.

Rajiv asked me to go to the party to practice west coast swing. I really wanted to stay at the studio. I really didn't want to go home and sit in front of my TV alone on a Friday night. Funny how much my life had changed since starting ballroom, because that's exactly what I would have done two months ago, and been completely fine with it. I started to follow Rajiv up to the party room. But midway up the second flight of stairs, I started to get lightheaded.

"I really think you should go home and get a good night's sleep, Rory," Rajiv said, putting his hand gently on my shoulder. "And eat something too. Make yourself a nice meal. A really nice meal. You are really working hard and you deserve it."

Funny for him to focus on eating, I thought. But I was feeling really tired, and emaciated. I thanked him for his concern, went home, and passed out on the couch before even changing or taking my makeup off.

***

I woke up, still on the couch. My contacts were sticking to my eyes, since I'd fallen asleep with them in. Crap, I hated it when that happened. I got up and made my way to the bathroom. I noticed on the way that James was in bed, atop the covers, dressed as well. We were the most pathetic couple in the world. Each of us out so late we couldn't be bothered to change into our pajamas. And yet not out together. And clueless as to where the other was.

I showered, dressed, ate half a banana, and packed my dance bag, all with him still passed out on the bed. It was Saturday late morning and he wasn't on his way to work? Hmmm.

"James," I called out, making sure he was okay.

"Mmmmm," was all he said, his head still planted into the pillow.

"I'm going out. I'll be back later. Okay?"

"Mmmmm, yeah," he said.

Good, I thought. I won't need to defend myself for going to the studio.

My four classes from noon to four p.m. were pretty easy--all social and all a cinch for me by now. Rajiv and Kendra weren't there. Kendra was practicing with Josie, and Raj had to work for once. By the end of classes, I was tired, and famished, and happy I had three hours until I had to be ready for Sasha. I changed into my street shoes and walked outside.

Hollywood was bustling with life, as usual. I nearly walked right into a Johnny Depp impersonator, focused as I was on an impromptu break dancing show outside the Dolby theater. I was taken aback. I hadn't realized how much Sasha looked like him.

Unlike my very residential neighborhood, there were a bazillion places to eat, all within easy walking distance of the studio. I ended up choosing a Tender Greens, where I ordered a Cobb salad at the counter before choosing a window seat where I could partake of all the life around me.

It wasn't until I'd been served and was nibbling on a slice of egg while watching a couple of drag queens sashay down Sunset in front of the hugely popular movie theater that I heard my cell phone buzz. Crap, I'd forgotten to check for messages again. I looked at the face. I'd just missed a call from James. I checked the call log. I'd missed four, all from him.

Oh, not now. I couldn't deal with him now. If we got into a fight, it would make me in a bad mood for my lesson with Sasha. And we would get into a fight. Because where was I?

Yet I couldn't leave it hanging. I'd be thinking about how mad he'd be all throughout my lesson. I was too nervous to listen to the messages. I just dialed him directly.

"Hey," he answered, sounding exasperated.

"Are you okay?" He didn't answer right away so I continued jabbering. "I called right away when I saw the messages; I didn't listen to them yet."

He sighed loudly. "Rory, I don't even know why I'm bothering to ask. But where have you been all afternoon? Why didn't you get any of my messages until now?"

Here we went. Why couldn't he just be happy I had a hobby that filled me with passion?

"I have classes today. I was going to tell you but you were sound asleep this morning and I didn't want to wake you." And here I went again with my defensiveness.

He sighed loudly again. "A text would have been nice, Rory." He sounded more exasperated than pissed.

"I...didn't even think of leaving a message. I..." I didn't really know what to say. I hadn't texted because I knew he'd get angry. I was doing everything I could to avoid my boyfriend. We were going to have to talk. But not right now.

"Well, by this point, I don't even know why I'd need one. I know exactly where to find you. At all hours of the day and night."

Silence. I wanted to ask him what he wanted. But I was afraid he'd have something planned for tonight and I'd have to tell him no. I really wanted to feign a purse-snatching or some other emergency as a reason to hang up. But that wasn't exactly going to fix things long term. Even for the evening.

"James?" I said after what felt like a few minutes.

"Yeah, I'm still here," he said as if he was surprised he hadn't hung up as well. "You know, they gave me the day off today since I worked so hard last night and I kind of thought we could spend the day together, at Griffith Park or Runyon Canyon or Malibu or something. Even just sleep in together and get up late and read the paper and drink coffee out on the deck and just laze around like we used to." There was sadness in his voice. Like he was remembering something that was never to be again.

Thing is, he'd perfectly described the kind of morning we'd had when I used to come down from San Francisco and spend the weekend with him during my third year of law school, after he'd graduated and was at his first job. But his schedule had changed drastically since then; we hadn't had one of those lazy weekends since I moved in with him over six months ago. I remembered those mornings fondly. They were nice. I felt safe. I couldn't wait to graduate and live with him permanently. But so much had changed. Even if he now had a brief break in his schedule, I'd already committed to a regimen at the studio. I wasn't one to renege on a commitment. Plus, I wasn't sure I wanted to. I was excited about dancing again. I no longer felt that safeness and peacefulness I'd felt with James on those weekends away from the stress of law school. Now James was a factor in my stress. And the studio had become a safe place away from it.

"That was a long time ago," I said.

"It wasn't that long ago. Only a few months."

"You've been working every weekend since I moved in. At least since then."

"Well, this weekend I'm not, Rory."

"I know. But now I have a life." I hadn't meant it to come out that way exactly, though it was how I felt.

He snickered. "Are you saying I'm the only one who's had a life since you moved in? You call working eighty hours a week to support us, to support you while you studied for the bar and then took a low-paying job, a life?" His voice was getting louder.

"James, you're the one who chose that job. First the big firm, then the entertainment--"

"Because I'm the responsible one," he shouted back.

I held the phone away from my ear. I didn't know what he was talking about. I looked down at my food. I felt bile rising from my insides. I didn't want to throw up. I just wanted to have my lesson with Sasha. And escape this man. Before I knew it my tear glands were full and I couldn't speak.

"Do you know what the monthly payment on our condo is, Rory? No, because I pay it all. Think about it--a doorman high-rise, on a top floor with a balcony overlooking the fucking city..."

I hadn't asked for any of it, I wanted to say. It was his condo; he already owned it when I moved to L.A. But my throat had constricted and every time I tried to talk, I choked on the tears.

"Your job obviously is not intense, like mine," he continued. "You have a lot of free time on your hands. Like Cheryl. But you're not Cheryl, Rory. You're a lawyer..."

He went on and I honestly didn't know what he was talking about or how to respond. This was about far more than me going to a dance class instead of sleeping in with him. My head was spinning. I'd so wanted to be on the ball for my first lesson with Sasha. And now I felt flummoxed, like someone had slapped me about the head. And I was feeling weak. I looked at my food again. I managed to block out James's words. He said something about my sister. I forced myself to ignore it as I placed an avocado slice on my tongue. I held the phone bearing his angry words away from me as I swallowed. The avocado went down, as did a sip of water. My throat finally un-constricted enough to allow sound to pass through, I put the phone to my ear.

"James, I have to get going. I can't deal with this now. I'll be home around nine thirty. We can talk then. Okay?"

"Just what I wanted to spend my free Saturday doing--fighting with you."

"Well, we don't have to fight. It's your choice." I clicked the "end call" button, put the phone on silent, and tossed it into my bag.

***

I spent the rest of my free time in the restaurant slowly eating and trying hard not to think about James. I closed my eyes and envisioned my rumba basic, the women with the heavy water jugs atop their shoulders. I tried to concentrate on dance, so he'd see how hard I'd been working. I headed back to the studio forty-five minutes early so I'd have time to warm up.

I was so nervous my heart was pounding nearly out of my body as I walked toward the receptionist to check in for my private.

"He should be waiting for you in the third floor practice room," she said, and I thought I would completely throw up what I'd eaten of my salad.

I gingerly walked into the practice room. At first I didn't see him, then spotted his glorious profile through the window to the back room. He was dancing with Cheryl. I looked at the clock. I still had five minutes till my lesson was to begin. I opened my water bottle and took a long chug, then tried to take as many deep breaths as I could, my heart racing faster with each passing second.

Finally, with less than one minute left, I saw out of the corner of my eye Cheryl staring at me. I glanced over to see the absolute nastiest look I think I'd ever been shot. The door to the back room opened and she stormed out, raising her chin and looking down her nose at me throughout her entire walk to the front door of the practice room. I was no longer bothering to try to acknowledge I knew her. What in the world was that about?

But no time to focus on her. Sasha's head peeped out of the door and he looked around the room. It was my time. I walked up to him, terrified I'd slip or trip or something ridiculous. I got practically all the way up to the door when he finally stopped looking around the room and focused on me.

"Oh, hello," he said to me, dark eyes widening, sending another volt up my spine.

"Hi," I squeaked. "Um, I'm Rory Laudner, your new student," I finished after clearing my throat.

"Hi, Rory Laudner," he said pronouncing my name perfectly. "Come in," he said, holding the door for me. I walked in and put my things down in the corner. "So, what can I do for you?" His voice was rich and sweet like dark chocolate velvet.

"Um..." Wasn't it obvious? I wanted to learn how to dance. "Well, I've decided I really like the international Latin dances and...I want to learn them really well and I thought private lessons would help me, you know, get better quicker," I blabbered.

"I see," he said slowly, raising his brows in a way that indicated someone taught him that expression as a more polished way of saying 'okay.' "Well, I may be able to help."

I couldn't help but laugh. Yes, maybe.

"We will start with rumba. The movement of rumba is the basis of all Latin dance. So, if you master rumba first, it will make everything else all that much easier."

I still found myself swooning over his English every time he spoke. I wondered if he was naturally linguistically skilled or had worked really hard to become so American.

"So," he began. "Let me see your r-r-rumba walks."

Okay, the way he rolled his r's was Russian. And endlessly sexy, I might add! But I had no idea what rumba walks were. I guessed he could tell from my blank facial expression but he waited for me to say something anyway.

"I...your class is the first international rumba I've taken. I've only taken Mitsi's social. I don't know how to do walks." I shrugged and rocked from foot to foot, feeling very stupid.

He paused a moment, looking up and to the left as if trying to remember something. If he pretended not to know I was in his bronze rumba I would have had to kill him. Or I would have shriveled into a tiny ball.

But he didn't.

"Okay. So I will teach you. Come stand behind me but look in the mirror so you can see both of us."

I did as he said.

"Start with the right leg back. Both your feet have forty-five degree turnout, but no more or you may hurt your hips when you settle your weight."

"So not as much as in ballet," I said.

"No, not like ballet," he said, after a brief hesitation. He pronounced the word with the accent on the first syllable, like 'ballot.'

He didn't seem to want to acknowledge my ballet background, like Mitsi, Bronislava and Samantha had. Was he being harder on me than they, or was he genuinely unimpressed?

"So the right leg is in back, toe pointed. Yes, yes, beautiful," he said, whispering the last word, his eyes widening.

He looked almost thrilled at my reflection, like he wanted to devour my leg. Though I almost couldn't hear it, it was uttered so softly, the 'beautiful' was the first compliment he'd actually given me. My stomach was all aflutter and my knees felt like they might buckle.

"Like arabesque!" I blurted out, feeling the need to say something to take some release off the intensity of his gaze and the word he'd just whispered. But now he looked annoyed. Okay, maybe I should stop it with the ballet terminology.

After another pause, he asked, "How long did you study ballet for?"

"Um..." I had to add it all up. "Fourteen years."

He nodded slightly. "It will help you. But it can also hurt you. Latin and ballet are very different in some ways. You'll see."

So, he seemed unimpressed with my dance background.

"And both legs are completely straight," he continued, returning his eyes to the mirror. "And point your back toe. Yes. Now, as you brush your right foot forward, your toe never leaves the ground. When the right foot passes the left, your heels touch, and your weight slowly begins to shift. When your right foot is about a foot in front of you, you step on it and complete the weight transfer, putting your weight into the right hip now. And then your left toe is pointed in back."

That was a load of very specific detail for a seemingly simple step, I thought, trying hard to take in all the words.

"As in arabesque," he tacked on.

I looked at him. His pupils bore into mine; there was no semblance of a smile on his lips. Was he kidding? Did he have an intense hatred of ballet? I could not figure this guy out at all.

"Okay, now I will watch you." He folded his arms in front of him and stepped back, looking me up and down.

"Watch me? Alone?" He was just going to stand there and judge me as I walked around the room? My heart dropped to my abdomen.

His eyes darted around the room. "No one will...hurt you? You want me to ask someone else to come back here with us--"

"No, no, I meant, I'm going to dance alone, without you?" I burst out laughing at our miscommunication.

He didn't laugh with me. "You remember what I told you. You show me how you interpret it. Afterward, I will correct the problems I see."

Yes, but this is going to feel so weird with you just standing there and watching me, I wanted to say but didn't. Grow up, I told myself instead. He's a professional.

He counted the beats and I moved in time to them, feeling self-conscious beyond belief. I tried to do exactly as he'd said, but I felt I wasn't shifting my weight properly and settling into my hip. Bronislava's words were echoing in my head, and all I could think was how I must look like a ballerina trying to move like a Latin dancer and looking absurd. After a few more steps I felt like I had to say something.

"Um, it doesn't really feel right." I turned back to peek at him. He was staring directly at my butt. Okay, the back of my hips and my thighs, which made sense, given that was the part of my body that was currently in motion. But damn close to my butt. He raised his eyes to my face, shaking his head a bit as if tossing a thought out of his mind.

"Yes, it's good that you felt something was not right. You are moving too much on the balls of your feet. You are not using your heels enough. You are too straight in the middle. Your pelvic area is not rotating."

Bronislava was right. Hopeless Swan Lake Girl.

"Here, watch me."

Yes, I can so do that.

I watched while he did the steps halfway around the room. The way he moved was such exquisite perfection, not to mention mouth-wateringly sexy, it was completely impossible to focus on the minute details he'd just taught me. His facial expression when he turned around to look at me indicated he could read my thoughts. Well, surely he'd been in this place many, many times with other students.

"Here, feel my body," he said, returning to me.

Excuse me?

He stood in front of me then turned his back toward me. He took my hands and placed one on each of his hips. The dance pants were made of a stretchy material that was thin enough to feel through. His body was so tight. His muscles were so strong and sinewy. When I wrapped my fingers around his hips, they came dangerously close to his crotch. I immediately turned my hands downward, so they'd go toward his hip bones.

"Feel. Just close your eyes and feel how my hips rotate when I brush my right leg in."

Yes, closing my eyes would help me focus. Maybe. I'd still be conscious of what I was touching, though.

"See how my left hip is curving, making a circular movement when--"

I was trying hard to listen, I really was. Part of me just wanted to giggle myself silly. Part of me wanted to whip him around, throw myself to the floor, and pull him down hard on top of me. And part of me wanted to kick myself for being so ridiculously immature. I was a ballet dancer. What was wrong with me? Well a lot of the men in ballet were gay so being all touchy feely was a joke, anyway. Still, I was paying a lot of money to learn how to do this right, and become a real dancer.

Grow up, Rory. Seriously, grow up.

After several minutes of trying hard to concentrate on the specific details of his muscle movement instead of the sensation that I was feeling him up, we changed positions and he placed his hands on my hips while he counted out the beats. I tried hard, hard, hard to feel myself move the way I'd felt him. I automatically closed my eyes, both so I could feel the movement better, seeing through my mind's eye so to speak, and so I wouldn't feel so self-conscious.

"Yes, that's good. I was just going to suggest that," he said, I assumed referring to my eye closure. He put his hand on the small of my back and pressed down. "This is sticking out too much. It's not good posture."

Ugh, my posture had always been good as a child and ballet student, but took a serious nosedive after spending a decade slouched toward a computer screen.

"Ugh," he said.

What, what, what, I wondered?

"You're still way too weighted on balls of your feet. It's like you're doing waltz."

This was the first time I'd heard him use imperfect grammar--by leaving out 'the' before 'balls' and 'waltz.' Hmm, interesting. His grammar got worse when he became frustrated.

He moved his hands up to my shoulders and gently pushed down, keeping them there while I took the next step, just as Mitsi had.

"Yes, that still works. But you need to stop relying on it."

Aha, so he'd seen me practicing with my hands on my shoulders. But this was the first I'd sensed a real frustration with him. He'd noticed me working on something and I'd made the same mistake again.

"It's worst problem I've seen on you."

I didn't know how to take that, whether it was a horrible or simple problem to have. This was my first private with him, so how would he know how bad my other problems were, I wondered?

"Okay, let's work on arms," he said, sounding even more dismayed. "You have ballet hands. Too soft. You need to bend your wrist, flex your fingers. Latin is spicy and dramatic. Think of spice, not sugar. Watch again first."

He demonstrated. I was beginning to pay attention to the details of his movement rather than swoon over his entire body. I think that was mainly because he seemed to be growing more serious with me, more disheartened when I made a mistake. His movement was controlled but much more dramatic than what I was used to where you just gracefully held your arms out to the side. It seemed in ballet, your legs did most of the dancing; in Latin ballroom, your whole body danced.

"This is your homework," he said. "You have to work on keeping your connection to the ground at all times. You push down on your shoulders when you feel yourself doing waltz but you are not to rely on that. Try without actually pushing. And the arms. You have problem with Latin arms. You have to get it in your muscle memory and the only way you're going to do that is to practice it over and over again. Hours a day, I mean." His eyes were wide and his face was all seriousness.

I was confused by why he was telling me this now. It was as if he was ending our session early. Why? Then I glanced at the clock and realized we were actually ten minutes past ending time. I couldn't believe the lesson was already over.

"You need to get this down," he said, looking harder into me, almost commanding I avert my gaze from the clock. "We have to get this down before we can move on. It's everything in Latin."

He looked at me like it was a matter of life and death. I nodded, returning his wide-eyed stare.

"Okay, then," he softened a slight bit. "I have you every week this time, right?"

I managed to nod. Kendra apparently had never taken privates with Sasha when she said he wasn't serious about his students.

***

I paid no attention to traffic as I drove home. Thankfully no one made any crazy turn before me or slammed on their brakes, and no pedestrians walked out in front of me, because my mind was still in the studio. I was happy--elated was more like it--that Sasha took me so seriously and that he seemed to know I had repeat lessons with him. But on the other hand, I was a bit freaked out about how adamant he seemed about me practicing for hours every day and seemingly expecting perfection the next week. Probably even by Wednesday in class. The way in which he said he wanted me to improve had a real air of urgency. I hadn't experienced that kind of thing in dance since my ballet teacher prepared me for tryouts for the School of American Ballet summer intensive. But this was just an adult hobby. I thought.

***

As I turned the key in the door I heard what sounded like moaning coming from inside. What in the world? Was James okay, I wondered? I turned the key more quickly and opened the door to see James shirtless on the couch with the woman from before, who was also shirtless, and braless. They were entwined with each other. Arms spidering all around each other, her lips planted on his.

"James," I called out in shock, though I should have expected it. She took her lips off his and looked at me full on, then turned her gaze downward, perhaps in embarrassment. James took several seconds to turn his head toward me. His eyes were halfway closed, seductively. He said nothing.
Chapter 16

Monday morning was kind of the start of a new life for me. Life as a single woman in Los Angeles. Saturday night, after I'd found James and Philip's niece, I packed an overnight bag and drove over to Rajiv's place downtown. He had an extra room, and had become a good, trustworthy friend I knew wouldn't take advantage of my sorrow. I knew it was over with James. I'd known it for some time. I still cried, though. It was the end of something. The end of my first home in Los Angeles, the end of my most serious relationship, the end of my biggest tie to law school and to my sister. Things had soured between James and me a while ago, but I cried for the end of the good times when he'd comforted me, built me up, made me feel strong and capable of doing anything. He'd been my only friend in L.A. until the studio. If I hadn't begun ballroom dancing, I would have been so much more alone. Rajiv told me he'd help me in any way I needed.

James called Sunday morning. After crying all night, I'd pulled myself together for our first mambo team meet. James and I hadn't broken up yet officially, but it was definitely coming. I let the phone go to voicemail and silenced it when I got to the studio without checking his message. I so wasn't in the mood to beg him to let me go to my team meet. There'd be no more defensiveness about my dancing. We'd talk when I was ready.

I tried hard to keep James from captivating my thoughts, which wasn't tremendously hard since I was meeting everyone but Pepe for the first time. We were definitely a diverse bunch and it seemed like the group would be a lot of fun. It wasn't mostly professionals, or even pro-looking dancers, to my surprise. There were two older ladies--one I'd placed in her sixties, the other in her late fifties. Both were amazingly good, judging by the basic warm-up. The older was a blonde named Lilly who spoke softly and with a sweet Southern drawl. She seemed really warm and excited to be on the team. The other was named Roxy, and her name suited her well. She had long hair with a purplish tint, and was tiny-boned but had a rather large chest, and had recently been on another studio's hip hop team which had placed first in the non-traditional-dancer category at Nationals. She was very proud of this, and said this in introduction before she even mentioned her name. There was a man, Larry, who I'd guess was around thirty-five. He had a jazz background and had a very Bob Fosse-esque quality to his movement. There was a twenty-something couple from Pepe's advanced class, Paulo and Judy, who were very good and clearly an item. And the last man was Enrique, also in his twenties, who had a lot of experience social dancing and was very good, but had little formal dance learning. He was Cuban and spoke very little English but he smiled a lot as if to make up for it. And that smile was infectious. I wondered if Pepe knew him from the social dance scene, or perhaps the LGBT world. I couldn't tell if he was gay.

We all tried dancing five minutes of free-form lead/follow with each other to determine who our basic partners would be, at least to start. Paulo and Judy danced perfectly together, and they'd come as a couple, so Pepe didn't mess with that partnership. Pepe assigned Lilly to Larry since he was closest in age to her and their heights were compatible--both were rather tall. That left Roxy and me as the unassigned ladies, and Enrique and Pepe as the partnerless men. I could tell how badly Roxy wanted to dance with Pepe, as did I. Enrique was a lot of fun but I had a very hard time following him since I didn't have much social dancing experience. And I had to be the only person in the whole of Los Angeles who didn't speak a word of Spanish! I sighed an enormous breath of relief when Pepe decided I would be his partner. I think his decision was based on the fact that I was absolutely horrid dancing with anyone other than him. Roxy looked really pissed and gave me the evil eye more than once after that. Ugh, great, conflict with a teammate from the get-go. Oh well, you can't have everything, I thought, hoping her pissy-ness wouldn't last long.

We spent the rest of the session practicing basic steps with each other and learning about Ron's objectives for the team. It wasn't until toward the end of the practice, when Pepe asked me if everything was okay, that I realized despite the fun I was having James was definitely on my mind.

"Not right now, but it will be," I told Pepe, somehow knowing I was speaking the truth.

***

When I got into the car, I listened to James's message. He'd asked if I could come home immediately and talk things through with him. That was two hours ago. I was sure he was testing me to see if I was at the studio and had my phone silenced. I called to tell him I was on my way home but his phone went straight to voicemail. I texted him the same.

When I got home he wasn't there. I changed clothes, fixed myself a glass of wine and began reading over my notes for jury selection for the Warren trial, which was to begin on Wednesday. I was very prepared but needed to take my mind off James and our impending argument which I expected to be a bitter one. He still wasn't home by six. I called again but his phone went directly to voicemail. I fixed myself a kale and avocado salad and another glass of wine, and sat down at the computer to make some changes to the opening statement. After I finished that, and my dinner, I stood in front of the mirrored closet doors in our bedroom and practiced rumba. The floor was carpeted so I couldn't do the footwork, but I could at least move my arms.

That is what he walked in to when he came home, at eight p.m. I had the music on so I could work my arms to the beat and didn't hear him enter. He shook his head when he saw me. I let my arms fall and turned off the iPod. I followed him into the kitchen where he was pouring himself a glass of Scotch.

"I called a couple times but your phone went straight to voicemail," I said, nervous about our impending conversation.

"Yeah," he said after a long pause, taking his drink to the living room and collapsing onto the lounge chair. "Conor called me. I had to go into work today. That's why I called this morning. Why I wanted so badly to meet with you early in the day. But of course I should have known you'd give that studio priority over our relationship."

I couldn't believe that after I found him cheating on me he was starting in on my dancing.

"My extracurricular time is spent learning to dance and improving my physicality, and yours is spent cheating on me and you're putting me on the defensive? How long have you been cheating on me with...with...Philip's underage niece? And have there been others or just her, James?"

He seemed taken aback; at first he seemed not to know how to respond. He was older and I'd always considered him stronger and more mature. I don't think I'd ever stood up to him before.

"Rory! First of all, only her. And secondly, you led me to it. You have no time for me anymore. You don't care about our relationship. You only care about this...this...hobby." He spit out the last word as if it was despicable, as if I were frequenting an underground sex club behind his back. "And she's not underage," he added.

I got so angry I felt faint. "How can you judge me like that? It's not a hobby; it's the only thing that makes me happy here." My words surprised me. I felt tears stinging the back of my throat. I collapsed on the couch, spilling a bit of wine in my glass as I went. I didn't have the slightest bit of desire to go get something to wipe it up with. Let it stain his couch.

He didn't even seem to notice. "It's not a hobby? Listen to you. You're obsessed with it. Are you even going to work anymore?"

"What? Of course I'm going to work. Every day. Every weekday, I mean. I don't go to the studio until after work during weekdays."

"What time do you leave?"

"Five o'clock." I didn't understand why this conversation was focused here. "James, what are we talking about?"

"You're a lawyer and they let you leave the office at five in the afternoon?" He completely avoided my question.

And I stupidly let him. "James, I get in at seven thirty. It's a nine-and-a-half-hour day."

"I work about twelve hours a day. At least."

"You make three times my salary."

"Rory, be serious. It's way more than that." He shook his head as if I had no appreciation for how much money he brought in.

I took a breath and sipped my wine, trying to quell my anger, nearly choking on the liquid on the way down.

"Which is fine," he continued in the absence of my voice. "We have very different jobs. But you're not even trying. You're just throwing your life away. I mean, Gunther isn't happy with you, you're a stress case, and you respond by not by working harder, but...I don't know what you're doing."

"You're unhappy with me. I get it." I was choking on tears, not able to talk very well.

"You're never here anymore. We never see each other."

That was mainly because of his job, not my dancing, but I didn't say that. Because it didn't matter. I took a deep breath and tried hard to speak clearly over the tears. "And I'm unhappy with you. I'm unhappy here. I have been for a while and just didn't see it until recently." My tears were back but I forced my words around them. "You've meant so much to me," I sobbed. "And I've really valued our friendship. How you helped me in law school. Especially with those appellate advocacy and moot court assignments where I had to talk before a crowd. You helped me come out of my shell and feel smarter and more confident. You improved my self-esteem so much. But...that was in the past. I can't be with you anymore." And I broke down crying, nearly dropping my wine glass.

He got up and sat next to me on the couch, taking the glass, then putting his arms around me and rocking me back and forth. It was the most comfort I'd felt from him for the better part of a year. And it felt so good. But it wasn't enough. Not now.

***

James and I decided that I would stay in his apartment until I found something else, which I hoped wouldn't take too long. We hardly ever saw each other on weekdays, anyway. It was only the second week of the month, so I was hoping I'd find something with a move-in date on the fifteenth. I signed up for Westside Rentals so I could specify everything I needed, like, in addition to neighborhood, a parking spot and hopefully a refrigerator and stove (not all Los Angeles apartments had those) and an allowance for pets, if I decided to get one. I asked Rajiv and all of my new friends at the studio--Samantha, as well--to keep an eye out for deals in their neighborhoods. I had no idea how daunting this would be since I'd never had to look for an L.A. apartment before.

***

Mr. Warren was back to his old self at the start of trial. Now that I could no longer threaten him with a psychiatric evaluation, he'd continuously refused to see me in the pens prior to trial.

"All rise, all rise, the Honorable Harold Rothstein presiding," the bailiff called out.

Everyone in the courtroom did as the bailiff asked except Mr. Warren, who was seated next to me. I tried to motion for him to rise but he paid me no mind. I looked at the bailiff, shook my head, and shrugged in apology.

Judge Rothstein walked in, looked around, glared at Warren, then transferred his glare to me. I gave him the same look as I'd given the bailiff but he didn't seem to care.

"Please be seated," he said. "Ms. Laudner, please try to control your client better. When the bailiff orders everyone to rise, your client is included in that command."

"Yes, Your Honor, I tried--"

"Everyone please be seated," he said, cutting me off. "Counselors?" He looked at me.

"Yes, Your Honor. Aurora Laudner for the defendant, Mr. Warren," I said, standing right after I sat down. I completely unintentionally gave a little balletic curtsy. Crap, where had that come from? Thankfully the judge didn't seem to notice.

"Dora Lyon for the People," my adversary said, flashing me an "I'm going to eat you for lunch" look.

"Is everyone ready to proceed?"

"Yes, Your Honor," we answered in unison, though I was anything but ready.

"Your Honor, please hear me. This woman does not speak for me." This was from Mr. Warren, who finally felt it proper to stand.

Ms. Lyon raised one eyebrow, now looking amused instead of intimidating.

"Mr. Warren, be seated now. You are not to speak here. You are only to speak through your lawyer," Judge Rothstein commanded loudly.

"Your Honor, she can't represent me. She is working against me."

"Mr. Warren, you MUST be seated. Counselor, control your client," Rothstein said, now addressing me.

"Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Warren," I said, turning to him. "You must let me speak for you. I have promised you repeatedly I will represent you to the best--"

"No!" he yelled. "You're not doing anything for me. You stay away!"

"Mr. Warren, if you do not be quiet and let her speak, I will have you forcefully removed from this courtroom. This is a court of law. You can't make your own rules here," Rothstein said, voice rising.

But Warren wouldn't sit. "She does not represent me. She does not. She is not on my side." His voice sounded hysterical, like he was really scared of me.

"I'm not reassigning you a lawyer at this point. This is just a stall tactic. You are proceeding to trial, Mr. Warren, whether you like it or not," Rothstein said. "Now, I'm telling you once more to be seated."

But Warren continued, insisting I was working against him. The judge asked him to sit a few more times, before calling the bailiff over and discussing something at the bench with him. I couldn't hear exactly what anyone was saying but the bailiff soon left the judge and approached us.

"I've ordered the bailiff to return you to the pens, Mr. Warren, until you decide you wish to behave in my courtroom," Rothstein said.

The bailiff reached toward Mr. Warren but he backed away. "No, you can't do this," Mr. Warren cried out.

Two officers approached, one grabbing each of Mr. Warren's wrists. I was afraid he'd begin flailing but thankfully he remained physically calm, other than yelling to high heaven as he was escorted away. After his voice echoing down the hall could be heard no more, I picked up my file. The judge looked at me quizzically.

"Your Honor, I assume we are adjourning for today?"

"Why would we do that? We are going to bring the prospective jurors in and continue with jury selection, Ms. Laudner."

"Your Honor, Mr. Warren has a right to be present at all stages of his proceedings. We can't continue--"

"Not if he forfeits those rights," the judge said.

"Then I ask that you grant a brief adjournment so I can speak with my client, Your Honor. I feel that it would be very unjust to deny him his right to be present at his own trial. Please allow me to try once again to talk to him, at least about respecting the system." I surprised myself with my assertiveness, even though the 'I feel' part didn't sound very lawyerly.

Rothstein thought, then nodded. "Fine. We'll adjourn for an hour."

Lyon harrumphed.

"Silence," Rothstein said, presumably to her. "Counselor, please talk some sense into your client," he said, returning his eyes to me.

I nodded. "I will certainly try, Your Honor."

And try I did. But I failed. The bailiff forced Warren to see me, but he refused to look at me or respond to anything I said. I returned to the courtroom with him hoping my persistent warnings that the judge would banish him from the room would compel Mr. Warren to remain quiet.

"Is your client ready to behave, counselor?" Rothstein asked when we were all seated again.

"I hope, Your Honor," I said, happy he hadn't asked whether Mr. Warren had actually indicated such. This way it wasn't a lie.

Mr. Warren behaved for all of thirty minutes, which was more than I'd expected. But when I began questioning the prospective jurors, he insisted on asking his own questions, which was strictly prohibited. I explained this to him and assured him he would be able to discuss with me privately which jurors he wanted dismissed. But he yelled that I was denying him justice. Judge Rothstein repeatedly ordered me to control my client; I repeatedly apologized and assured him I was trying my hardest. Needless to say, we got nowhere with jury selection the first day.

When I returned to the office after court I went to see Gunther. I found him standing in a pile of papers in the center of his room. Literally. The man was definitely overworked.

"I'm sorry to bother you. It'll just be a sec," I pleaded.

He ushered me in.

"Thank you. I started the Warren trial today. I just wanted to keep you apprised. He continues to act out. The judge keeps warning me to keep him under control but I just can't. He already banned him from the courtroom once and I know he'll do it again. He's, he's uncontrollable."

Gunther threw his hands up, then continued looking down at his pile of papers. "Thank you for letting me know," was all he said.

I called Maya.

"Rory, I really wish I could help. I asked around. There's only one person here who's had any experience representing someone mentally ill. He won his competency exam, the psych pronounced the guy bipolar and prescribed meds, and the client went to trial. That was it. I'm so sorry you're having such a hard time, honey. Honestly, from what you've told me, your guy sounds like a paranoid schizophrenic. I mean how he seems to talk to people who aren't there and how he seems hysterically afraid of you. I'm really surprised the judge didn't at least have him examined."

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly."

"Frankly, I think there's not a lot of understanding of mental health issues by lawyers and judges. We're trained to be so logical. If a defendant acts out at trial, to a logical person it's because he's trying to avoid conviction. Period. I guess that's where Rothstein's coming from."

***

I understood logic. But Rothstein spent most of the next day with his head in his hands. He was getting really tired of Mr. Warren. I wished he'd just reconsider my motion for a psychiatric exam.

At the end of the day, Rothstein said he had things to take care of the rest of the week, and we'd resume with jury selection next Tuesday. After his announcement to the courtroom, he called me up for a sidebar, and told me to go see my client in the pens on our days off and explain to him that he couldn't speak directly to the jurors. I wanted to laugh, but of course didn't, instead telling the judge I would talk to him again, emphasizing the "again." I couldn't believe he still thought this was under my control.

***

I couldn't wait to get to the studio every night. It was my only escape from the insanity of the trial. Crazy-tough Bronislava's classes had actually become my favorite. My reputation as "Swan Girl" was becoming cemented, but in a comical way, and I was able to laugh with her at my foibles. I was getting used to her yelling at me to get off the balls of my feet and put my heels down, and slowly I was beginning to obey. I practiced putting my hands on my shoulders for five seconds only, feeling the pressure of my heels grounding, then removing my hands while keeping my pressure on my heels. I was staying grounded but only for short periods.

"You must work on your arms at the same time as your feet," Bronislava said on seeing me. "Or it won't be in your muscle memory. It will be"--she made a motion with her hands indicating two things being pulled apart--"broke."

I nodded. Now I understood why Sasha wanted me to break that habit. So, I tried to mentally put my hands on my shoulders while doing the proper arm movement. That was a lot going on in my brain, though.

I also liked Bronislava's classes because it meant I would see Paulina.

"That's looking one hundred thousand percent better, my dear," she pronounced in samba class after I practiced a series of voltas across the floor.

"You mean since I didn't create a train wreck?" I laughed.

"No, I'm serious. Your whole bottom half is moving much better! Way to loosen up that pelvis, girl!" she hooted, making me blush.

I also enjoyed dancing with the funny, flirty guy who was horrible but cracked me up by raising his eyebrows to the cha-chas. Others seemed to find him annoying because he was taking difficult classes beyond his level and seemed primarily intent on picking up women. There were a lot of sighs and harrumphs after people rotated away from him. I heard Sadie, the hyper-flexible septuagenarian who'd demo'd with Sasha, loudly correct him. But for some reason I found his antics to provide some good comic relief, much needed right now in my life. I learned the most when I danced with the teachers, not the other students anyway, so he didn't annoy me. I figured Sasha, Pepe, and the instructors I danced with in class would teach me proper technique; everyone else would teach me how to let loose, have fun and be social.

The one class I didn't really like, oddly, was Sasha's. There was a serious amount of tension in that room, generally coming from all of the women. I mean, besides Paulina. It was just so competitive. I felt like everyone hated each other, hated everyone but Sasha. Except Cheryl and Luna. Cheryl was now regularly taking his group class. She and Luna stood close together and whispered, glaring in my direction. Cheryl seemed to have something in for me since Saturday when she saw me going to my private with Sasha. And Luna still seemed pissed at me about her fall in samba class, as if I meant to do it.

Hardest to take, though, was Sasha himself. Every time I rotated to him, he acted like I was nothing to him. Almost like he didn't know me. He'd avert his gaze when he danced with me, and never corrected me. Nor did he tell me I did well. He merely nodded at me, glancing into my eyes for a split second at the end of the routine and looking away before any magic began. I wondered if he was mad he hadn't seen me in the practice room all week. I was too tired during the trial to stay that late. I'd promised myself I'd make up all the missed hours of practice this weekend, including Friday night--even if I was the only one there.

My commute home was really starting to grate on me. Taking the subway all the way back downtown to get my car, then driving across town to James's place was getting very old. And yet I definitely didn't want to risk driving up to the studio during rush hour. Plus, it was just emotionally difficult living in James's place, though he was, for the time being, living with Philip's niece. It was too hard looking at all of his things. Too many reminders of what had been. I had to find my own place soon.

"You haven't been in the practice room all this week!" Kendra teasingly reprimanded me in hustle class.

"Ugh, I know. Had a horrid trial this week," I managed to say as she whisked me around into a series of diva walks. "I'm definitely going this weekend, though. Did I miss any drama?"

"Of course. Methinks trouble in paradise is looming between you-know-who and his new partner," she whispered loudly.

"Really?" I turned to look at her over my shoulder, though I was supposed to be strutting away from her.

"That man has been seriously pissy lately."

My lesson had given me an inkling of what Arabelle must be going through with him. Talk about intense. And she was his partner, not just a trifling student.

"I don't think they're sleeping together. At least not yet," she offered gratuitously.

"Kendra! What? How do you know?" I laughed.

"Because that man is hard up. He hasn't been laid since Xenia and he is just about to explode from tension."

"Kendra!" I laughed, secretly hoping she was right. Particularly now that I was a free woman.
Chapter 17

Saturday afternoon between my classes and my private lesson with Sasha I went to see two apartments, both of them in Hollywood. It would certainly make my life easier if I lived near the studio. I liked one of them--it was a fairly spacious one-bedroom in my price range, which surprised me. Only thing, I wasn't too sure how safe the neighborhood was. It was in the southern part of Hollywood, and I'd been told to go as far north as possible. North meant safer, especially since I'd now be a femme seule. It was one of the only two apartment buildings on a very peaceful-looking tree-lined street with lots of gorgeous, expensive-looking houses. But despite the nice houses, there were more than a few run-down cars parked on the street and in some of the driveways, and some of the lawns looked like they hadn't been taken care of in years. While approaching the building I was to see, I was passed by a muscly man with quite oily hair wearing no shirt, hole-y shorts and unlaced combat boots and heaving a huge speaker on his shoulder playing a rap song. With his other hand he led two scary-looking pit bulls on chain leashes.

"Hey baby! You one hot mama!" he said to me.

I pretended to think he was talking to someone else and I looked around, feigning confusion.

"Hey! I said hey to you," he yelled, his tone now angry.

I looked at him. His brow was furrowed, his lips pulled down into a deep scowl. His dogs eyed me as well. Hungrily.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you were talking to me. Hey," I spurted out before running up to the gate of the building where I was supposed to meet the landlord. The gate was locked. Crap. I whipped out my cell to call the number again, though I was five minutes early. But I heard the music fading, and when I glanced back up the street, I saw the guy and his canine friends had moved on. Across the street a woman wearing dirty clothes was hobbling along the sidewalk pulling a grocery cart filled with what appeared to be all of her belongings.

"Ehhhh," she called out, giving me an evil stare.

I shook my head and looked away.

"Rory Laudner?" I heard a man say behind me. I turned around to see a nice-looking thirty-something man wearing a casual beige suit approach the other side of the gate.

"Yes!" I said, eager to get inside.

The apartment was really nice. New hardwood floors perfect for practicing dance on, large closets that would more than fit the relatively few clothes I had, a patio door that opened onto a serene-looking courtyard.

"It's beautiful. I really like it," I told him. "But I was just wondering if it was really, you know, safe around here?" I felt like a small-town girl asking such a question.

"Definitely an important question." He validated me. "I live two blocks down and I've always felt safe, but to be honest, it is spotty. This is Hollywood and you always need to have your wits about you. If I were you, I'd come here at several different times during the day and night to see what it's like around the clock. And walk around the neighborhood. You'll get a better feel."

I thanked him and took an application in case I changed my mind. But I was fairly sure I would not want to be coming back here late at night after a practice party.

The other one I saw was the exact opposite. A little over my price range, it was a teensy tiny studio on Franklin, the northernmost street in Hollywood before hitting the hills. Embarrassingly, I was over ten minutes late because parking was absolutely hellacious. It was in the most touristy part of Hollywood, which was the most touristy part of L.A. I actually had to call the agent and she had to come outside and direct me to where locals park.

"It's a little more than the regular studios because of the great view and because the sectioned-off area for the bed actually transforms it into a 'junior one,'" she explained, apparently seeing the surprise in my eyes when we walked into the tiny unit.

The sectioned-off area she showed me--which was enclosed by ugly utilitarian blinds--could probably barely fit a twin-sized bed, nothing more. The "view" consisted of a window so small it almost looked like a ship's porthole, which overlooked a parking lot. And the kitchen was so narrow, the fridge door grazed the oven opposite it when opened. The neighborhood was far safer, but there was no way the body of the studio would fit a desk, couch, and dining table. I'd have to choose two of the three, maybe one. This was going to be harder than I thought.

By the time I retrieved my car and found a parking space at the studio, I had no time to warm up before my lesson with Sasha. As I opened the door to the practice room, Cheryl flew out. I quickly tried to step out of her way so she wouldn't smack right into me, but she had the same idea, and we both moved in the same direction. Her stiletto landed hard on my big toe.

"Sorry," I said, taking the blame, trying not to focus on the momentary pain.

She harrumphed, lifted her gaze to the ceiling and scooted around me. I had no idea what I'd done to this woman. I wondered if she'd heard about my breakup with James, but she'd been rude long before that. I put it out of my head as I stepped into the room. I had far more important things to worry about.

Like how Sasha would treat me after the way he acted in class. He was fidgeting with the iPod. His back was to me as I approached the door to the smaller room, but he turned around the second before I turned the knob. Like he knew I was there. His left lip curled up ever so slightly, giving him an intensely sexy crooked grin that instantly made my knees shake.

"Hello, Rory," he said as I put my bag on the bench.

"Hi," I said, head down, walking toward him, my heart beginning to pound at the anticipation of his fingers on my skin.

"So." He raised his left eyebrow, making his smile all the more teasingly wicked. "Please tell me..." He lowered his head so as to look into my eyes. "Where is Rory?" he laughed with a bemused frown.

I raised my head. "Um, sorry?"

"Ah, there you are. Yes, that's much better."

Oh yes, the posture issue.

He lifted both brows and strutted slowly toward me. My knees turned to rubber as he reached out to me. But before touching, he pulled his hand back.

"Ah, but before we start, please tell me how much did you practice this week? How many hours?" The way he said this clearly indicated he knew the answer.

I felt my face redden, even though I had a damn good excuse. Two excuses, actually.

"Ugh. I had a super-rough week. Really, really rough. I have this crazy-stressful trial at work and I broke up with my boyfriend and then I had to look for a new apartment, and of course that's a nightmare so far. Everything is either totally expensive or in a scary neighborhood. And my commute..." I spurted out in one breath.

His frown went from amused, to bemused, to confused. He might not understand English when spoken so crazy-fast. And I hadn't actually answered his question.

I took a breath. "But anyway..." I tried to remember exactly how long I'd spent in my bedroom mirror waiting for James to come home last Sunday night. "Two hours on Sunday. And last night I stayed and practiced for two more, even though I was the only one left and everyone went home." I said this proudly. And I was proud of myself. But then I wondered how ridiculous I looked. No one else was in the studio on a Friday night, except me. Can you say 'no life'? "So, um, four...four hours total."

His frown disappeared and was replaced by two raised eyebrows. I had no idea what this meant. So I went on.

"But I still went to all my classes this week, even despite the trial and breakup and apartment search. So if you include that, that's fifteen hours. So, I'm going to say, nineteen hours in all. I mean, not all of it was rumba, of course. But it was dance. Ballroom dance. Latin dance. So, um, nineteen hours." I was finally out of words.

He continued to regard me with raised eyebrows and a bemused smile, then slowly began nodding, several times. He finally began walking toward me. By the time he reached out to take my hand, I was a bundle of nerves. I laughed--guffawed was more like it--and grabbed his hand, supposing I was off the hook. He placed me in closed position and began doing a basic. He wore a freshly pressed white button-down shirt. It smelled crisp and clean, despite the fact he'd been teaching for the past several hours. Maybe the man just didn't sweat. I closed my eyes and melted into our movement.

"Did you say you have a trial?" he said, removing his hand from my shoulder blade and brushing his fingertips lightly on the small of my back.

My pulse skipped more than a few beats, before I remembered this meant I was sticking my butt too far out. I fixed my lower back and his hand returned to my shoulder blade.

"Um, yeah. We had jury selection this week. It's at the courthouse downtown. It's my first that I'm doing all on my own. My boss thought I could handle it. And I can, but I mean, it's stressful. Thankfully, I don't expect it to last too long." Can I please stop the uncontrollable blabbering when stressed?

"Your boss?" He removed his fingers from my back again, this time brushing underneath my neck.

My pulse raced again. He lifted my chin. That's right. This was about posture correction.

"Oh, so you are the lawyer."

"What? Yes, oh yes. Of course. No, I'm not the defendant!" I let another guffaw escape. I let his hand guide my chin upward, where my gaze met his. He had that crooked, deliciously wicked smile again. He knew I was the lawyer and not the client. He was just teasing me.

"Fancy," he said, lifting his eyebrows again.

"Well, I don't know about that," I tittered self-consciously. "I mean, it's a job."

"What type of lawyer?"

"Ugh," I said without thinking.

"Ugh? The ugh kind?" He laughed.

"Ha, no, not exactly. I mean, I'm just working at a small firm, doing lots of different stuff. The trial is a criminal matter. It's a pro bono case, so it's a poor person who can't afford a lawyer and we're representing him free of charge." I hoped he didn't give me the third degree, like Mitchell had.

"That's very noble of you," he said with yet another raise of the brows.

I wasn't expecting that. None of James's friends had ever had a kind word to say about my first real case. "Thank you," I said, wanting badly to shift to a closer, high-schoolish dance hold, with both arms draped around each other.

"Okay, warm-up is over. We should begin." He released me and stepped back, walking toward the iPod. He turned on the music this time, but very low. "Okay, show me your rumba walks that you spent nineteen hours practicing." His tone was somehow both teasing and commanding.

I shot him a "be serious" look. He knew I hadn't spent all nineteen hours on a rumba walk. I took position near the mirror where I'd walked last time, and waited for him to indicate when I should begin by counting.

"I'm waiting." He folded his arms before him and leaned back against the wall.

"Oh, I was waiting for you to count," I said with another nervous giggle. At least it wasn't a guffaw this time. He narrowed his eyes playfully at me. At least I think it was playful. "I mean, I don't need you to count. I mean, I can hear the beats from the music. But I thought...I just wanted to follow you. I mean, I can, I'll count on my own."

His eyes grew wider the more I rattled on, followed by the return of his slightly sly grin. "I will trust that you can count."

Okay. I can do this, I thought. The second I turned my back to him, faced forward and began the brush of my right toe to cross in front of the left, my self-consciousness returned, ad nauseam. I forced myself to focus on the beats of music and the corresponding muscle movements so as to take my mind off the fact his eyes were basically poring over every millimeter of my body in judgment. But the more I focused my mind on those beats of music and the more I moved, the less self-conscious I became and the more my muscle memory returned.

"Good," he pronounced when I'd made it one full rotation around the room. "It's very slightly better. Very slightly."

He walked up behind me, and cupped his left hand around my waist. I'm generally not ticklish but somehow this startled me and I jumped.

"Sorry," I squealed.

"I will walk with you in shadow position."

Oh. Okay. He placed his right hand on my shoulder, then brushed his fingertips slowly and gently along my right arm from the shoulder down to a couple inches above my wrist. He moved closer until his pelvic bone was grazing my waist. His right leg was now between my legs, his left brushing the outer side of my left leg. Once our lower bodies were so deliciously intertwined, he placed his left hand on my front side, between my hip and abdomen. I felt liquid heat build up in my lower belly and had to force myself to resist squirming.

"Good. We are good size together. We match," he said.

This was the second time I'd heard his impeccable grammar falter. It was actually pretty cute.

"Okay, two three four...And two," he called out, stepping with his right foot on the second two.

This was an indication that I was supposed to go too and I well knew that but I don't know what happened. Yes, I do. His thigh was between my legs, a place that seemed to be getting wetter by the nanosecond, and his groin was bopping into the upper part of my left butt cheek. It was too much. I had to take a breath and calm myself.

"I know. I'm sorry. I know," I stuttered.

"Shhhh," he said in the most serious tone I think I'd ever heard that command uttered in, before taking a breath and starting the count again.

This time I made sure to take off a split second after he did. But then I took too small a step and his crotch really reared against mine. I tried to make up for it with the next step but that one was too big and he had to lunge to keep his hand around me.

"No, in Latin the step you take is the distance between your hips. No bigger. We are not in ballet doing jetés."

"Okay, okay." I laughed at his exaggeration.

But he was dead serious now. "Try it again."

Did the man know how hard it was to concentrate with our bodies so intertwined, with his cinnamon breath in my ear and his strong hand cupping my belly? I had no idea how far apart my hips were when I was trying to walk forward. I'd take too long a step, then too short of one, and he'd nearly trip over me, so the next one would be too far. He couldn't foresee how big a step I'd take and I totally made us off balance. He finally stopped and patted me on the waist.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to dancing with someone whose lower body is, like, braided into mine--"

He removed his hand from my waist and placed his finger over my lips. "Shhhh, no excuses." His eyes were wide and dark. There wasn't a trace of teasing in his tone.

I opened my mouth to say something else--I knew not what, probably another excuse--but he spread four fingers over my mouth, covering it completely. We stood in silence for several seconds.

"Okay, are you ready to listen to your teacher?" he said.

I nodded.

"Good. You are not following me. You are not feeling me. Or the music. You are thinking way too hard. You are trying to measure your steps and anticipate mine."

He'd completely read my mind. It was uncanny. Those were precisely all the things I was doing. Besides freaking out over how much I wanted him.

"Just feel my lead, my body," he continued. "Don't think. Just feel."

I nodded. I understood what he was saying but I had no idea how I was going to prevent myself from thinking. I'd spent most of the last seven years in school thinking till my brain ached.

"Try again," he said, his voice now a command.

I tried hard to sense his hips, his thighs, to move mine in tandem. But I could feel his frustration growing and it made my muscles tense up so much so that I couldn't feel anything but my own tightness. I peeked at our bodies in the mirror. If I could see his legs moving, maybe I could better move mine with his. But I don't know if it was the distance from the mirror or the sideways vantage point, but my perception was off and I just made it worse.

"No, no, no, don't do that." He stopped, released me, and stepped back. "I told you to feel, not look. You are using the wrong sense."

He was definitely frustrated. I'd stepped on his toes several times with my Latin stilettos so I could understand why. But his short temper was only making my nerves worse. I opened my mouth to explain that but he spoke before I could.

"I don't want you to think about me. I just want you to focus on moving the way my body moves because that is proper way. I need you to learn proper way so you practice this for next two weeks while I am gone. And when I come back, I want it as perfect as possible. I mean, it will never be perfect. Nothing ever is. But close."

I smiled but he didn't. This was his philosophy. I'd never be perfect but must be as near perfection as possible in two weeks. Wait, why two weeks?

"You won't be here next week? At all?" I could hear the forlorn sound in my voice and was immediately embarrassed.

He sighed. "The front desk didn't tell you?"

"No."

He shook his head and said something angry-sounding in Russian. "I am going to Tokyo for a week and will be gone next Saturday so there will be no private lesson."

"Tokyo? Wow!" I was intrigued.

He shrugged. "My former partner and I agreed before we parted to perform in a presentation of world finalists. They have it every year. We've been invited for the past..."--he counted--"...eight years."

"Wow," was all I could think to say. A pang of jealousy shot through me that Xenia would get him all to herself for a week. Even as I was getting a whiff of what she must have gone through, with his short temper and easy frustration, I couldn't help but be envious that her body would be intertwined with his. I wondered if they'd get back together if they danced together again.

"Come on, I want you to get this down so you practice it right," he said, urgency tingeing his voice.

We did the walks again but this time instead of him being simply behind me trying to lead me with his body, he actually corrected my placement as I went. And he left nothing out. He altered practically every millimeter of my body, every millisecond of the way.

"Okay," he finally said, releasing me.

How I'd ever remember everything he'd said, everything he'd fixed, I'd never know. I walked to the back bench and picked up my bag, dumbfounded over his insanely detailed instructions, terrified I'd already forgotten everything.

"So you will practice and I will see you very shortly," he said, softening and walking toward me. "Believe me, two weeks is nothing when it comes to practice." He reached out to me and for a second it seemed like he was going to place his hands around my shoulders, making me automatically rock toward him. But he stopped short, dropping his hands to his sides. "Don't worry. We will go over it all again. It will get easier each time. And sooner than you know, it will be in your muscle memory." He was much calmer now.

"Okay," I said, weirdly feeling a tear well at the base of my throat. I had no idea why--whether it was because he was so hard on me or because I'd miss him next week, I didn't know.

"It will be okay. You will be good. I promise," he said, now stepping toward me and giving me a light peck on the forehead.

All my blood rushed to my feet. I turned to leave lest I fall over.

"Oh, by the way," he called out just as I neared the door. I turned back around hoping my face wasn't as red as it felt. "I meant to ask you, what's this about moving? Where do you want to live?"

"Oh." I tried to regain my thoughts. I seemed to have forgotten everything that happened to me today pre-Sasha-lesson. "Um, well, I was actually looking for a place in Hollywood. Somewhere not too far from the studio. But somewhere safe. I mean, I'll be a single woman," I said, realizing how ridiculous my words were as they left my mouth.

He nodded. "I live nearby too. Kind of. Hollywood Hills. I'll keep my eye open for you."

"The Hills! In a house or apartment building?" I blurted, then blushed. Could I pry more?

"House," he answered, with that same slightly bemused, slightly playfully malicious smile he'd worn at the beginning of our lesson that so made me want to melt.

"Oh, wow!" I needed to leave pronto before I embarrassed myself any more. "Well, have a good time in Japan."

"Good luck with your trial," he said in return. "And Rory, practice."

"Yes, I will. I will," I said and bumped my way through the door.

***

After team practice on Sunday, I met Rajiv in the studio lobby. He'd offered to drive me downtown to see a couple apartments near his place. It wasn't Hollywood, but it would be close to my office. So I'd decided to give them a look.

The first wasn't far from his loft. It was in the arts district, the area currently undergoing revitalization. It was trendy in places, not completely gentrified in others, not gentrified in the least in others. It would take a downtown denizen to know which areas were safe.

"I know, I know, it's not as chi-chi as San Francisco," Rajiv said when he saw the expression on my face as we whisked from one street to the next. "But it's getting there. For now, it's a great place to invest."

"Except I'm in no position to buy," I said.

"Well, that's why you should learn the area. For when you are ready. And you will be soon, you lawyer!"

I thought I detected flirtatiousness in his voice. I hoped not.

The first was a corner unit on the sixth floor of what appeared to be a revitalized warehouse. It was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows that had views of two streets, one teeming with people running into restaurants and galleries, the other with permanently closed stores. That was the nature of the area: one block full of life, another a ghost town. It was well within my price range but I'd be sharing with three other people--one couple and another single woman. The woman was there to let me in but the couple was out of town. He was an artist and had a showing in Miami. The single woman was an actress in her early twenties. She'd just graduated from Juilliard and was in a small play showing in the arty NoHo section of North Hollywood. She worked days as a receptionist at a downtown law firm, of all places. She seemed really nice and it would be interesting to live with a couple of artists. I was looking to get away from lawyers a bit, after all. The room was fairly large but we'd all have to share a bathroom and kitchen. I didn't mind sharing the kitchen--I hardly cooked--but four people sharing a bathroom? That was the only real turnoff. I couldn't imagine what it would be like getting ready for work in the morning.

The other place was in a huge high-rise in Bunker Hill, which was a little removed from the rest of downtown. The big glass building made me worried about a potential earthquake, but the manager assured me the architects had earthquakes in mind when designing. This one was a little over my price range but it was already furnished, so I'd be saving on buying a lot of stuff up front. But this one had no kitchen at all. It was for people in town with long-term business projects who were planning on eating out every night. That could get expensive.

"Ugh, I didn't realize this was going to be so hard," I said to Rajiv while we had lunch at a cute little French bistro across the street from his loft. "I'm sorry for wasting your time."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Why do you think Westside Rentals gives you two months on your membership? Because it takes a while to find a place. Did you really think you would find one in only one weekend?"

"I guess not. I'm just anxious to get on with my life and get out of James's place, you know?"

"Understood," he said, again with a smile that seemed a little more than friendly. "Well, I have to say I do hope you get something down here. I will take you out every night if I have to. It would be really nice to have you in the neighborhood." Now Rajiv's smile seemed way more than friendly.

Oh no. I didn't think of him as more than a friend. A good friend though, one whom I didn't want to hurt. Maybe my obsession with Sasha wasn't as obvious as I'd thought.
Chapter 18

I asked for Mr. Warren to be brought to the courtroom half an hour early so I could talk with him. I'd tried to talk with him Thursday and Friday but he'd refused to see me both days. I knew he wouldn't fail to show up for his own trial.

"Mr. Warren? Mr. Warren?"

He refused to look at me. Fine, I figured. I didn't need to see his eyes as long as he was well within earshot.

"Mr. Warren, if you continue to speak out during jury selection the judge is going to have you removed from the courtroom and that part of the trial will go on without you. I promise you I will fully confer with you after I've finished questioning the potential jurors. You can tell me privately which jurors you want and don't want and I will listen to everything you have to say. Okay?" He said nothing. I had to assume he'd heard me.

Unbelievably, we got through the first round of questioning without Mr. Warren interrupting. The judge gave me a collegial nod and raise of the brows, indicating he was impressed.

But when I returned to the defense table, Mr. Warren was so excitable he nearly shouted. I had to continually ask him to keep it down while he spoke to me. He first insisted that a Chinese-American prospective juror worked for the Chinese government, which was in cahoots with the U.S. government about something--I wasn't sure what--and therefore unfit for his jury, while a Middle-Eastern-looking woman was part of a conspiracy that somehow involved the 9/11 terrorist attacks. He went through every one of the potential jurors, making similar ridiculous claims. One man he just said was possessed by the devil.

I truly didn't know what to do with this man. He was either paranoid or pretending to be crazy and I wasn't in a position to decide which. He nearly lost it and really started screaming when I told him we needed concrete reasons to use for cause challenges. I had to calm him all over again. After about half an hour, Rothstein called me up.

"We don't have all day. I can't let this go on any longer."

Potential jurors were fidgeting, Lyon was madly tapping her pen on her pad and giving me the evil eye.

"Yes, Your Honor."

I walked back to Mr. Warren. "Okay, we need to do the challenges now. I'm going up to the bench. I'll be right back."

"No, you're not going to put my best interests forward," he yelled, more than loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear.

"Yes, I will," I whispered, trying to calm him.

"No, you're not. I know you won't. I know you won't. You're not on my side. I know you and I don't trust you as far as I can throw you."

"Mr. Warren," Rothstein shouted, banging his gavel. "Order, come to order."

"No, no, I must be there, I must!"

"For God--bring him up," the judge said, motioning to us to hurry up.

I ended up challenging a couple of people for cause who'd expressed doubts about being able to be fair, and then used peremptory challenges to strike all of the jurors Warren didn't want. I knew it wasn't a good idea to use so many peremptories but I didn't know what else to do. He'd completely freak out if I would have let those jurors he was paranoid of sit on his trial.

"You sure you want to use all those right now, Ms. Laudner?" Rothstein asked me while looking at Warren. He seemed to know what was going on.

"Yes, Your Honor," I said.

"Mr. Warren, let me explain something," Rothstein said, addressing him. "You don't have unlimited peremptory challenges. You can't just dismiss every single potential juror. If you use up your peremptories now, you won't have any left for later rounds, when there are people you may need to really use them for. Trial attorneys have been found ineffective for failing to use peremptories to strike jurors who seemed clearly prejudiced against their clients. So you don't want your attorney running out of them so early in the game." He looked at me when he said the last part.

Ugh, all I needed was a strike like that on my record this early on. And all because I couldn't control my own client. I was thankful for Rothstein's speech but knew it wouldn't alter Warren's behavior.

I was right. Warren continued vehemently demanding I challenge everyone on the next couple of panels for completely illogical reasons. By the end of the day, we were nearly out of peremptories and we still had over half the jury to choose.

I'd never wanted to escape to the studio more than that night. When Rothstein finally dismissed us for the day, I nearly flew out of the courthouse.

***

"What's up, Swan Girl?" Bronislava yelled. "You're horrible tonight. Where is your brain?"

In the courtroom, of course, I thought but didn't say.

"Sasha's in Japan. With another woman. That's where her brain is. Some people pay no attention to the no-fraternizing policy, apparently." It was Luna.

I was dumbfounded. My heart pounded and the blood shot straight to my cheeks. She said the whole thing under her breath, particularly the last part, but I felt like the whole class heard because silence suddenly reigned supreme. I looked at her. She and Cheryl stood so close they were practically on top of each other. Luna looked away as if she'd said nothing; as if I must have been hearing things. Cheryl did her now-typical raising of the chin so she could peer down her nose at me.

So many thoughts flooded my mind. I suddenly realized the no-fraternizing sign in the studio's entrance must mean no romantic relationships between teachers and students. I hadn't completely understood the sign before. Were they actually accusing me of being more than his student? From their prior conversation Rajiv and I had overheard in the hallway, it had seemed Cheryl had violated that first, or had wanted to.

"Hmmm, where is it?" Bronislava said again, apparently not hearing.

"I'm, I'm sorry, I have a difficult trial at work," I said. But just then the music began and Bronislava didn't hear. I guessed the question was rhetorical. I really didn't want Luna spreading rumors. Why would she have said such a thing?

"What's up, little darlin'? Cheer up. Yer way too pretty to cry. Not to mention too damn good!" It was Whispering Cha-Cha Man.

He held his hand out to me. He was next in my rotation. I smiled and took it.

"That's it! There ya go!" he said throughout our routine, as I basically led him through a series of forward and backward cha cha chas, a New Yorker, an opening out, and a cross-body lead. It was crystal clear he would never have made it through without me back-leading. "See, you're on top of it all. You got it!" he cried.

I laughed--finally--and thanked him. He'd taken me out of my stupor.

"No, what are you thanking me for? Thank YOU!"

I giggled more. But I felt Luna's angry eyes on me. And I gulped down tears welling in the back of my throat.

***

"Ha! Jealous little biatch!" Kendra said later in swing class when I told her what Luna had said. "You're so far above them, Rore."

"What? Luna?"

"I mean, you know, not her, but she's jealous on behalf of her bestie. They're both total biatches."

"Why would she be jealous, though? Just because I have a crush? Do they really think there's something going on?" I looked around. None of the Sasha groupies were in the social classes so we seemed safe from wandering ears.

"You know you took Cheryl's time spot with Sasha, right?"

The fact I stopped moving and stood looking at her open-mouthed must have been a clear indication I did not.

"Are you serious, girl?" Kendra hooted. "You are so out of the loop!"

"No. That's not true. She has him right before I do. They told me my slot was available because someone had left the studio."

"Not!" She smiled and raised her eyebrows flirtatiously. "She had two slots booked back to back, but Sasha told the studio manager he wanted to work with you as well. That it was only fair to make room for a new student. He insisted they give the slot to you."

"No, that's so not true. I talked to the studio manager. She didn't even know...and she said...how do you even know all this?"

"Are you kidding? I know everything that goes on here. I'm the classic busybody! Don't you know that by now?" she shouted, throwing her arms up in laughter.

"Yeah, but, he didn't even know who I was before I started privates with him. Seriously, you should have seen him looking all around the room for his eight o'clock the night of my first lesson."

She let go of my arm and took a step back. "Ohhhh gawd, I see a problem, Rore."

"What?"

"Yep, a big one. Okay, listen to me and when you go home tonight, follow my directions to a tee. Maybe we can fix it. There might still be time."

I widened my eyes, listening carefully for her instructions. She looked so serious.

"Sit down on your bed, bend over, grab your head...and pull. Pull it out of your butt. Pull hard. It's apparently stuck up there pretty far. But just keep tugging till it comes out. It will. I have faith." She patted me on the shoulder, all seriousness before screaming, "Arghhh. Straight girls! I'm so glad I'm not one of you!"

***

My thoughts were a jumble all the way home. Did Sasha tell the studio manager to give me the spot because he wanted to work with me?

Why would you want to work with a student so badly?

Was he romantically interested? My heart beat wildly at that thought. But what about that no-fraternizing policy? Did it mean he'd lose his job if anything happened between us? Even if we were completely platonic, Luna and Cheryl could start rumors that might hurt him. I wouldn't know anything until he returned, so I might as well try to put it all out of my mind. Even then, I couldn't really ask him any of these questions.

***

Jury selection took the entire week. Mr. Warren wanted to exclude practically every potential juror. Surprisingly, Rothstein ended up giving us more peremptory challenges. I had an inkling he was beginning to feel a bit sorry for me. Lyon of course objected her head off but Rothstein just kept giving her the palm. I don't think he liked her.

But Friday morning my peremptories ran out a second time and Rothstein said he couldn't give us any more. I was actually relieved. I explained to Warren we couldn't strike anyone anymore and were stuck with the rest of the jurors.

Of course Warren began screaming when he saw who all was taking a seat in the jury box. "No, I told you. No, it can't be her. No, you can't do this to me. She's an operative for the army, I know she is. I'm on to her. I know what you all are. I'm on to you all..." he went on, pointing at Lyon, then Rothstein.

Rothstein admonished him to be quiet, his voice rising with each outburst by Warren. Warren began talking so fast his words were a blur. I couldn't hear most of what he said and hoped the already-seated jurors couldn't either. Rothstein ordered a bailiff to escort him out of the courtroom and when the bailiff did, Warren lashed out at him with both arms. Three bailiffs had to be brought in to restrain him, handcuffing him behind his back and nearly carrying him out of the courtroom.

The jurors all had looks of complete disbelief on their faces. Rothstein swore them in and dismissed us for the weekend. I was now kind of glad Sasha was out of town. After Warren's behavior, exhibiting what I felt were more signs of classic paranoia, I wanted to prepare another competency motion. I knew it would go nowhere but I desperately wanted him seen by a psychologist. Funny how worried I'd once been about getting him examined and possibly committed to a mental hospital indefinitely. Now I was so sure there was something seriously wrong, and he needed help, not prison. Plus, I knew that I could be found ineffective for using up all the peremptory challenges so early on. I wanted it on record that I'd done everything I possibly could for my client at every stage.

***

Despite the stress of trial and the need to get up early each morning for work, I made myself spend at least a half hour in the practice room each night. Sasha's absence was palpable, to make a substantial understatement. Arabelle was there practicing with the coach. She was so beautiful. It was hard not to admire her long limbs, her lithe body and slim build. She moved so gracefully. Her rumba walks were breathtaking. I so wanted to be her. But whenever I looked in the mirror at myself in comparison, I saw a shorter, squatter person with an hourglass figure. I had to stop comparing myself to her. It was bad for my self-esteem. I knew that. I was healthy enough now to realize how I needed to protect myself from myself. I couldn't let my ballet insecurities creep back up, lest the horrible eating disorder return. I focused on Bronislava, who was more curvy and sexy. And really, from what I could see, just as good as Arabelle. Albeit sans Sasha.

I began really to miss Sasha, particularly when his regular group class rolled around and we had a substitute. I'd thought it would be Bronislava but instead it was the coach. Her name was Greta, and talk about meat and curves. She was the exact opposite of Arabelle, which wasn't to say she was fat at all. Rather, she was pure muscle. Nearly like a female bodybuilder though that wasn't something you noticed until very close. From afar she looked solid but thin. She had a very thick accent that sounded German to me and since she didn't know us and what we knew, she ended up doing really simple things.

She gave me a cursory nod and smile when I rotated to her, like she did everyone else. "Gud," she pronounced with a nod after we finished. "Very gud, actually. I think you are on your way."

I didn't know what she meant by that. On my way to what? Maybe it was some kind of German saying.

***

I texted Samantha, complaining that I missed Sasha. I'd assured her when I started taking lessons with him that I'd go over details with her of what he was like. But thus far I hadn't had time. I asked her if she wanted to hang out Saturday night after I finished my court motion.

Don't get pissed at me, but I'm in Japan!!!! she texted back.

What????

My aunt lives near the hotel where World Show Dance is held and she goes every yr!! She bought us tix!!!

You're going to see him dance?! Now who's the biatch?! She'd jokingly called me that word when I'd told her I'd decided to take privates with him.

Me me me me me!!!

Lol! Well we must get together the second you get back! I need to hear all about it! And I mean every last detail, lady :)

For sure! I'll be back next Sat. You should invite me to your studio's party!!!

That night's the monthly party. I don't know if Sasha will be back, but let's do it anyway.

Awesome!

Oh and take videos!!! I wrote.

I can't, silly! They're strictly prohibited! she texted back.

Why?

Because then no one would buy the DVDs!!!

DVDs?

U serious Rory?!

Ok, I'm a dumbass. Seriously, what DVDs?

Go to WT this weekend and tell the clerk--I think it's George. Tell him to get you all the Sasha DVDs. There may be a lot, but get the last five Tokyos. And Blackpools. And Worlds. Just ask him for everything we have on Sasha and get all you can afford!

Will most def do! Thx Sam!

De nada. Can't wait for that party!!!

***

I got up early Saturday morning to work on the motion. Just as I opened the door to go to the kitchen, Philip's niece opened the guest room door. Ugh, they were staying here now? When I was more stressed than I'd probably ever been in my life?

I left the computer on and my coffee at the desk and hopped into the shower, trying to decide whether I should go to the office.

"Hey," James said when I got out. He was looking at my computer. "It looks like you're working. I assumed you'd have dance classes."

"I have to focus on a motion. I'm right in the middle of trial and want to make this on Monday. What about you? Not working?"

"No, unbelievably I don't have to," he said with a slight smile and a relieved sigh. "We were just going to hang out. How's the apartment search going?" He just said this in a civil, conversational tone.

We seemed to be more civil toward each other than we had in a while. "I'm sorry. I had some to see today and tomorrow but I really need to focus on this trial right now."

"That makes sense," he said. "Work's gotta come first."

"I know how un-ideal this is, James. The trial should be over soon. And then I promise I'll find something."

"Don't sweat it, Rore. Get the trial over with. Then focus on other things."

He gave my back a little pat and with it returned a flood of memories from all the times in law school before exams and stressful oral arguments, when he'd calmed me down, told me how smart, beautiful, and accomplished I was, how far I'd come being from in a small town and all, now in the big city. How much better he'd made me feel about myself. That's what I'd fallen in love with. He was older, a father figure, which I'd so longed for after Daddy passed. But now that I'd met Sasha, I realized there was something huge lacking in my relationship with James. That was passion. Animal attraction. Sexual chemistry. I'd always told myself it would come someday because I loved him so much. But it didn't, and wouldn't. He'd been a good friend. That's all he had ever been and would ever be.
Chapter 19

I ended up going to the office. James and the memories were too distracting. I missed my classes and worked the whole day. I drove up to Hollywood in the evening, before going to the studio for a private practice I'd booked.

I arrived a little early and decided to see two more apartments. The first was up a tall, winding hill that seemed to go on forever. It was officially listed as Hollywood but felt so far back on the hill it seemed closer to Burbank. I parked on the side of the slope, making sure to use my parking brake and turn my wheels toward the curb. The apartment itself was really pretty but there was no secured entrance to the building and no locked parking garage; my space would simply be right in front of the building. And the assigned space was so small, I didn't even know if my Prius, compact as it was, would fit. It was so quiet up there. Almost too quiet. Too far from any commercial area. It seemed Hitchcockian and unsettled me.

The next place I saw was just east of Hollywood in a neighborhood called Los Feliz, which had gentrified not too long ago. It was located above a very commercial street, with a lovely little French bistro and an arty bookstore across the way. But perfect as the area was, the apartment itself was a dump. It was a bottom unit and the continuous thundering of feet on the hardwood floor above all but prevented me from understanding the landlord most of the time. The walls needed painted--there was actually a small hole in the corner near the floor--the floorboards badly needed polished, some of the bathroom tiles were loose and the tub was stained. When I asked him if he was going to make any repairs, he gave me a hearty laugh, along with a serious run-around.

"Now, Rory, I know you're a lawyer and not a businessman--or well, businessperson I guess." He paused to break out in roaring laughter at his supposed joke. "Don't want to be caught being sexist, especially with a lawyer," he said, roaring out in laughter again.

I forced a laugh to be nice but I don't think it came out very genuine. I'm not a good actor.

"But you need to put on your businessperson hat. Can you do that? Take off your lawyer hat and put on your businessperson hat?"

I nodded, frowning, not sure where he was going with this.

"Good," he continued. "Now, a good businessperson would know that if I did all that you wanted, I'd have to raise the rent--say," he paused, eyes up and to the left as if he were calculating. "With all that it would cost me, I'd say a hundred and fifty a month more in rent."

I nearly fell over. The apartment was already a hundred dollars more than what I wanted to pay. And it was crap, to put it mildly. I must have unconsciously shook my head because he seemed to get very excited.

"That's right, that's right, you don't want that, honey! No! You want to fix it up yourself. You want to avoid that extra per month and fix it up yourself! Yes, that's what you want, honey! That's what you want!"

This guy was way too excitable. And "honey"? He was worried about being sexist and now he was calling me "honey"? Even if the apartment was a mini-mansion, I don't think I would have been able to deal with this guy's personality.

***

I drove to the studio, depressed. Would I find something that worked? As I sloughed past the front desk on my way upstairs, the receptionist called out to me.

"Oh, Rory. Rory?"

I looked over at her, thinking she was just going to tell me I didn't have Sasha's lesson tonight. I nodded at her. "Yes, I know Sasha's out of town..."

"Yeah, but there's also a message for you. Here," she said holding a piece of notebook paper toward me.

I frowned and walked toward her. I didn't work here; who was leaving a message for me? I took the piece of paper, which had the name Frank written on it, with a phone number and an address on Franklin Street, one block north of Hollywood, where the studio was located. At the bottom, it said "Call for apartment. Tell Frank you dance with Alex at his studio."

Alex?

"Okay," I said quizzically. "Do you know who left it?"

"Nope," she said without looking up. "I just got here and it was here already."

I searched my brain all night, thinking of all my teachers and classmates. Was there someone I'd mentioned my apartment search to whose name I didn't know? Someone I'd danced with at a practice party? The whispering cha-cha guy? I didn't think I told him, unless he overheard Rajiv and me. Well, it was obviously someone who knew me.

After my last class, I called the number.

"Frank Mudry," a gruff voice answered.

"Hello, my name is Rory Laudner and I'm calling about the apartment. I'm, um, a dancer at Alex's studio." It felt oddly exciting to call myself a dancer and I couldn't help let a giggle escape. He said nothing. I hoped he didn't need Alex's last name. I continued, "I was given a message with your name and told that there was something free in your building at..." I read the address on Franklin Street. He still said nothing, so I asked, "Is it still available?"

"Yes," he said finally. "When can you come by?" He was so short and to the point--the antithesis of the last landlord.

"I can come over now. I'm in the area."

"That works. Call me when you're here." He hung up before I could answer.

I walked, butterflies overtaking my stomach the closer I got. I was going to have to pretend I knew this Alex person.

It was on the same street as the high-rise I'd looked at last week but this one was a smaller, more arty-looking dark blue building several blocks down, in a more tree-lined area. It was two blocks west of the touristy area, which made it quiet but not too quiet. Right away it felt a lot safer than the others I'd looked at in Hollywood. I called Frank again when I got to the front door.

"Didn't take you very long," said a genteel-looking white-haired man who appeared to be in his early fifties. He unlatched a chain-link gate.

"No, the studio's unbelievably close." I looked at my phone. I'd made it in only ten minutes.

"Come on in." He seemed a lot warmer than on the phone.

I walked through the gate, which I noted locked behind me, and followed him into the courtyard, which bore a nice pool, the water clear and blue, surrounded by several outdoor tables and chairs, and a few beach-y lounge chairs.

"This is the courtyard."

"Wow, it's nice." James and I had no courtyard in our building. We just had an Olympic-sized pool in the basement. But it was more like a gym, for serious swimmers to get a workout, not for loungers.

He took me up two flights of stairs, to the top floor. The apartment was in the front of the building, facing the street. The living room was not huge but not small--definitely large enough to have some company. But what floored me was that there was a beautiful balcony outside where I could easily put a patio table and several chairs. I loved being able to sit outdoors! Something seemed very San Francisco-y. The kitchen was compact but had everything I needed. The bathroom had a nice, deep tub useful for after-dance soaking. And the bedroom! Gorgeous, and large. Like the living room it wasn't huge, but big enough to fit a king-sized bed and a computer desk so I could do a little work from home. But what really struck me was the bedroom's floor-to-ceiling window. It let in so much sunlight! There was a huge palm tree out front and the room made me think of what it would be like to live in a tropical rainforest. The apartment was the perfect combination of urban and nature. But with the balcony and huge window, plus the location, I was scared to ask the price. When he told me it was only twelve fifty, I nearly fell over. The crappy place in Los Feliz was two hundred more, and this place was in perfect condition with freshly painted walls, new carpeting, and beautiful shiny marble countertops.

"Oh my gosh, I love it!" I gushed. "I definitely want to apply!"

"We can take care of it all now. There's no real application. Just some cursory paperwork. Come down to my office."

This was way, way too good to be true. In San Francisco people would be fighting tooth and nail for a place like this at this price.

Frank gave me what was basically a questionnaire, asking for details about my car, employer, emergency contact, and the like. I worried a bit over giving him my firm's name but that was officially my employer. I had to.

"Everything looks good," he pronounced, scanning the sheet. "I just need two cashier's checks or money orders--one for the deposit, which is same as one month's rent, and one for the first month's rent. The apartment's ready to move in now. As soon as you have the checks, I'll give you the keys."

I was in shock. Was this a dream? He hadn't even verified my employment. I nearly skipped back to my car, unable to wait until Monday when I could go to the bank for the checks. I just hoped it wasn't one of those things that was too good to be true. That the receptionist hadn't accidentally given the note to the wrong person. Something told me it was legit. I just felt it in my gut.

I'd get Frank the checks and could start moving as early as Monday night. Actually, I could probably move in completely Monday night. I had no furniture--what I used now all belonged to James--and very few clothes, books and other personal items. I could easily fill up the hatchback and make it in three trips.

***

I texted Rajiv to tell him I found a place today so didn't need him to meet me after team practice tomorrow to look at places downtown.

Details, please, he texted.

I told him it was in Hollywood, more perfect than I ever could have imagined and I was thrilled and couldn't wait to show him.

I'm happy you're happy. But sorry we won't be neighbors. You would have liked DTLA. I'm telling you; it's the new hipsterville.

"Hipsterville"--he cracked me up.

I thought that was Silver Lake, I wrote.

All the same. East side L.A., baby, east side. Anyway, glad Westside Rentals came through for you.

Oh, weird thing. It wasn't listed with them. Someone named Alex left a note for me in the studio telling me to call the landlord. Landlord saw me and gave it to me right away. Weird, right?

Very. Who's Alex?

Don't know. Racked my brains.

Be careful Rory.

What do you mean? Why?

Just don't give him cash or anything. Make sure you get receipts for everything and you get the keys when you turn over any money. This sounds a bit weird.

But it has to be someone in the studio? It wouldn't be a fraud. How would that happen? I was getting all worked up now.

You want me to come with you on Monday? he asked.

No, I'm a big girl, I wrote. But thank you!

Let me know if you change your mind.

***

At team practice we began choreographing the first part of our routine. We started out doing a slow, sexy rumba, but after about five seconds of that, we shot into supercharged mode and the music sped up by about five hundred percent. We had lightning-fast footwork and, harder for me, lightning-fast, super-intricate arm work with the guys lifting their arms practically every half second indicating for us to do an underarm turn, a full body turn with both hands, or a cross-body lead where we turned past them. Hardest part was all couples had to be perfectly in sync. Of course everyone was going at a different pace and forgetting the exact arm work, which made us look extremely clumsy. Roxy and Enrique were already fighting. Or, she was fighting with him, rather. He seemed all smiles so I don't know if he was equally annoyed with her and just trying to grin and bear it, or whether he couldn't understand a damn word she was saying and couldn't speak back.

"He can't lead," she said after Ron told her she was back-leading him.

"You're all doing this," Ron said, talking to the lot of us now. "I know this is choreographed, ladies, but you still need to wait for the man to lead you. Back-leading is really obvious to the judges, and it looks like this. When I tell you to freeze, everyone freezes, okay?"

We all looked at each other with bemused expressions, nodding. He played the music and told us to dance. The slow section was easy. Then the crazy-fast beat kicked in and I tried like hell to keep up with it.

"Freeze!" Ron shouted.

I stood as still as I could, nearly falling off balance since I was, at that exact point, on one foot.

We all looked around.

"First of all, notice how no one is on the same page," he said.

True that. Everyone had their hands in the air at various angles. Some were just beginning to turn, some were mid-turn, some had completed a turn. We looked so ridiculous, we all cracked up.

"Laugh now," Ron continued. "But you won't be laughing when it's days before our first competition and you all look like this." He laughed, so we knew he wasn't really reprimanding us this early on. "But what I want everyone to focus on is this. Look, for example, at Rory."

Yikes, me?

"Look at her right hand. Where is it?" I looked up at my right hand as everyone's eyes followed. "Whose hand is it on top of?" he asked.

Laughter broke out. "Pepe's!" everyone answered in unison, including me.

"That's right," Ron said. "And who is Pepe? Her partner, right? So, that means, with her hand on top of his, she is leading her partner. But is Rory the man?" Everyone laughed again. "But I shouldn't pick on Rory," he went on.

Thank you!

"Look at Roxy's hand. Whose hand is it on top of?"

"Enrique's," everyone said.

"Correct. And Lilly's?"

"Larry's!"

"And Judy's? Actually, where is Judy's hand?" Ron said, in a faux bewildered tone.

"Under Paulo's!" I said loudly and excitedly, thinking we'd be talking in unison. But it was only my voice that sounded. I felt my face redden.

"Yes, that's right, Rory! Paulo and Judy are the only two people who are actually dancing lead/follow correctly. Let's all give a hand to Paulo and Judy, everyone."

We all applauded, and they smiled. Paulo kind of twirled her around, then they both took deep bows.

"Seriously, folks," Ron went on. "The judges are going to be taking mental snapshots just like we did just now. And if they see the ladies' hands on top--any lady's hand--they're going to know the lead/follow is off and they're going to deduct points. Mambo is essentially a social dance and if the lady doesn't follow--or if the follower doesn't follow I should say, gender roles being what they are these days--the two people are going to struggle and there's going to be no partner dance. Okay."

We tried again and again. Unbelievably, it was the hardest damn thing not to raise your arm of your own volition when you knew a super-fast turn was coming and you wanted to make it on the beat. No joke. Near impossible.

***

My motion finished, I decided to run up to WorldTone to check out some of those DVDs Samantha had been going on about.

When I walked in, I had to force myself not to look at any of the shoes. Already, each of my pairs hurt me in some way, on some part of my foot, and it was oh so tempting to buy another pair. But I couldn't. My credit card was too bloated already. I looked around trying to find the DVD section when I heard a male voice call out.

"Can I help you, miss?"

I turned to see George from class--my first partner in Bronislava's cha-cha. The one I'd tripped and nearly killed my first day. When Sam said George would be working I didn't know she meant this George.

"Oh, hi," I said.

He bowed politely, in recognition.

"Um," I began. This was going to be embarrassing. After Luna's outburst, I was really self-conscious about people in the studio knowing anything about me and Sasha. Now how was I going to ask for every DVD he had on the man? "Hi, how are you? I didn't know you worked here!" I blabbered instead. But he only nodded. He definitely wasn't a talker. "Um, I was in a few weeks ago and Samantha helped me. And she mentioned you have DVDs?" Maybe I could do this without mentioning Sasha.

"Oh, right, Rory." His eyes brightened, showing something had connected in his brain.

"Yes. Aka Swan Girl." I laughed.

He didn't. "Samantha said you'd be in. You want the Sasha DVDs, right?"

Ugh. Okay, whatever. He didn't seem like too much of a gossip.

I nodded sheepishly.

He began to turn around and walk away.

"Um?" I started.

"We don't leave them out here because they might get stolen. I have to bring them out."

Stolen? How much were they worth? I sat and he brought out six DVDs.

"I can only bring six at a time. Decide whether you want these and if you want more, I'll get them."

"How many are there?"

"Of what? Blackpool and Tokyo only? Or all the competitions and shows?"

"Um..."

"Tokyo is the biggest in the world for performances," he began, making it clear he now knew I was a total neophyte. "And Blackpool and the World Championships are the biggest comps. Blackpool makes the best videos though and the same people who win Blackpool almost always win the Worlds later in the year."

"How often are the videos made?"

"What do you mean? Every time there's a competition or showcase."

"And how often is that?"

"Once a year." He looked at me like I was seriously daft, which is exactly how I felt.

"Okay, then Blackpool and Tokyo," I said.

"There are..." He looked up and I could tell he was counting in his head. "...Six of each, because he competed in juniors before adult professionals."

Wow. George knew a lot about our Sasha too.

I ended up spending the bulk of my Sunday afternoon choosing which DVDs I wanted. At twenty dollars a pop I couldn't afford very many. I chose his earliest Blackpool, when he was only nineteen and won the junior division with Micaela, the one where he first competed in the pro division with Xenia, and last year's. I chose the last three years of Tokyo. More money than I'd wanted to spend, but what else was new?

I couldn't get home fast enough. I walked in to James and Philip's niece on the couch, in the same position I'd found them in before. The TV was on again, but now they were a tad more interested in each other than the machine. I'd be moving out very soon! I skipped past them, darted into the bedroom, turned on the computer and popped in the first DVD.

Sasha was just so sweet when he was young. So ingenuous and ambitious and hopeful and extremely hard-working. You could tell how much he wanted to win. His raw hunger shone in his eyes and radiated from every millimeter of his body. The immense desire to win not only the title but something more. Yes, there was something more at stake. I couldn't tell just what that was. To bring everyone under his spell, to so fully captivate them for a time, blowing them so far away they'd tear up knowing they'd never see anything like it again? Was it a power thing? He looked like a boxer ready for the fight of his life. Young as he was, he had that fire, that white-hot animal magnetism that had so overpowered me the second I saw him move.

Micaela was truly beautiful. She had long, jet black hair and a dramatic face with high cheekbones, full lips and wickedly arched eyebrows that looked exceedingly cool. She was tiny-boned, at least then, and porcelain-skinned. She moved like a snake and was hyper-flexible. So, this was the current world champ. And I guessed Sasha and Arabelle were now their primary competitors.

Sasha threw both arms up and punched both fists in the air when their names were called as champions. They took the podium and medals were placed around their necks. She was all smiles, both at the camera and at Sasha, indicating they were definitely a couple. His nostrils flared, as if he were exhaling all the fire he'd had stored inside him. I looked more closely into her eyes as she blinked at him. I detected a disappointment she tried hard to cover. He wasn't looking at her the same way she was looking at him.

I popped in the Blackpool DVD where Sasha first competed with Xenia. He seemed even more fiercely competitive than before. I could feel the tension shooting out from the screen. He had something more to prove now. Want seeped from every pore of his body, like radiation. Xenia looked a little alarmed, like the proverbial deer in headlights. I looked for Micaela and found her in a second. She'd become even more dramatic-looking, and had developed a few more curves. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a long, sleek ponytail, and she wore no bangs, which emphasized the dramatic lines of her face even more. Her brows now looked painted on, with a very high arch. But, at odds with the drama on her face was the ease with which she moved about the room. Her partner was a large-boned man with short blond hair. He lacked Sasha's dancerly physique and combination of dark male beauty and virility, only possessing the latter. He had a construction-worker body, with large hands, and a brawny face with a square jawline. But gone from Micaela's eyes was the disappointment she'd accidentally revealed with Sasha. This man looked so protective of her. He took care of her. She trusted him. She loved him. You could see it in her eyes. After they'd finished their rumba, Micaela's man wrapped his big arms around her, and kissed the back of her head. Her face lit up. Their mutual love and affection was so heartwarming; you almost couldn't take your eyes off them for that.

James knocked at the door. "Rory, you going to be up much longer? It's just a little loud."

I glanced at the computer clock. Crap, it was already eleven p.m. How in the world did I let that happen?

"Oh wow, I didn't realize the time," I said, quickly taking out the DVD. "Sorry if I kept you up."

"No worries," he said. "Good luck in court tomorrow."

"Thanks."

Under the covers, I couldn't stop thinking of Sasha. Watching those DVDs was kind of like looking at old childhood albums of your significant other for the first time. Even though of course we were nothing of the sort. But how fascinating would it be to do that? Where did he grow up? What was his house like? What was his family like? When did he come here? How did he learn English so well? What would his goals be after being named world champion? But would he ever be? He was by far the best male dancer. No question. But he hadn't really partnered perfectly with either Micaela or Xenia. The way each pair moved about each other--they didn't completely connect, they didn't completely trust each other, they weren't completely working together as a team. It was a far cry from the way Micaela danced with her new partner. I wondered if Sasha could form that complete connection with Arabelle. Because it would be the utmost travesty for him never to make champion, brilliant, intoxicating, almost beyond human perfection as he was.
Chapter 20

"Please, please don't, please don't," Mr. Warren cried out when I was about two minutes into my opening statement.

I'd made my motion that morning, which the judge promptly denied as I knew he would. We started trial that afternoon. Everyone turned to look at Mr. Warren. He was staring straight ahead at Rothstein, his eyes wide and fearful.

"Mr. Warren," Rothstein called out. "You must stop that now." Rothstein sounded weary.

"No, don't. I know who you are and what you want. I'm on to you, you know. I won't, I won't let you." Warren shook his head rapidly.

"Mr. Warren," I said, walking toward him. But when I stood straight in front of him I could tell his eyes weren't connecting with Rothstein's. He was looking at something else. Yet there was no one else in his line of vision.

"You know not what you are doing! You know not what you are dealing with!" he yelled.

"Counselor, can you please control your client," Rothstein said completely without any force. He knew I couldn't.

"Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Warren, I'm in the middle of your opening statement. You need to quiet down while you're in the courtroom."

He glanced at me as if momentarily taken out of his reverie, surprising me. But almost immediately he looked back to the blank space in front of him intently. It was as if someone stood there who I couldn't see. He continued shaking his head.

"No, he can't do that either," said the judge. "He's distracting the jurors."

"Mr. Warren, please, you're distracting..." I approached him, cautiously touched his forearm. But he ignored my touch, backing away quickly not from me but from the space in front of him, which he was still staring at, his chair making an awful scrape on the floor as he scooted back.

"No!" he cried out at the space in front of him, taking a full swat.

I was now standing too close to him, and his hand cracked my forearm on the way back. It hurt momentarily and I grabbed it. He'd really taken a swing.

"That's it. Take him away," the judge said to the bailiff. "I will have no physical assaults. Absolutely not."

As the bailiff went to restrain him, Warren swung out at him with all his might, crying, "Nooooooo." The judge ordered two more bailiffs to restrain him with cuffs then drag him out of the courtroom. "Let me go. Let me go. He's trying to get me! He'll get me!" Warren wailed as he was carried down the hall.

"We'll proceed without the defendant present. Mr. Warren's forgone his right to witness his own trial. Continue with your opening, counselor," the judge said to me.

"Your Honor, may I please be heard at the bench?" I asked, holding my hands together in prayer mode, hoping it was obvious I was pleading.

He sighed and motioned Lyon and me up.

"Your Honor, I believe Mr. Warren just exhibited classic signs of schizophrenia, as well as more classic signs of paranoia. I'm sorry, I know Your Honor is sick of hearing me on this, but I must move once again to have him examined by a psychiatrist. It's unfair for him not to be present at his own trial, particularly if his disruptiveness is caused by mental illness."

"Counselor, I understand why you keep making this motion. Your client is out of control. But during jury selection, he did not have any of these so-called schizophrenic attacks he appears to be having today. He played paranoid for jury selection and that didn't work, so now he's going all out and pretending to be schizo. Do you know how many people I've seen pretend to be crazy to get out of going to trial? When you get to be my age and you've seen the things I've seen, you'll understand why there's no way anyone in my position would entertain such obvious shenanigans."

Ms. Lyons called as witnesses the estranged wife, her mother, and her sister, and produced Mr. Warren's phone records as evidence. Having no real defense, I simply tried to poke holes in the testimony, or question the witness's character. The sister had fraudulently cashed a check, which I used to challenge her overall credibility. And the mother and Mr. Warren had never gotten along, fought for years about his low-paying job and his inability to buy her nice clothes and take her on vacation. I used that to argue she desired to see him put away and would therefore lie or stretch the truth.

The estranged wife simply kept crying on the stand. She said she once loved her husband, and still actually did, but that he'd inexplicably changed so much recently, become so verbally abusive and crazed. She'd first found it endlessly frustrating to have a conversation with him, then impossible, and finally became scared enough of him to get the protective order. It seemed like he'd become "possessed," she said. Her testimony provided an excellent argument for proving Warren's developing mental illness, but I couldn't put on an insanity defense without the defendant's consent.

Lyon rested her case and Judge Rothstein dismissed us at four o'clock. I grabbed my briefcase and nearly ran in my pumps all the way to the Bank of America several blocks away. I was determined not to let the nastiness of the trial, which I couldn't do anything about at this point anyway, get me down about my move. I got the two cashier's checks--with receipts, like Rajiv had warned--just before the bank closed, subway-d up to Hollywood, and walked the five blocks to my new apartment. My new apartment!

I'd thought about trying to move in that night but decided to wait till the weekend. Hard as I tried not to be, I was just too distressed about the trial. I woke up several times during the middle of the night, shaking. The next day, I would begin my defense. Mr. Warren insisted he testify. I pleaded with him to exercise his Fifth Amendment right and not testify since I had absolutely no idea what he'd say or do. But he was insistent, of course. And under the law if a defendant wished to testify, the attorney couldn't prevent him from doing so.

My worst fears came true. The second he was sworn in, he began blabbering nonsensically to the jurors, just as he'd done to me, and just as, according to her testimony, he'd done to his estranged wife. The only tidbits of information I could understand were that he believed someone had raped and drugged his wife, and that I was trying to harm him. I continually tried to bring him back on track, he continually refused, and Rothstein continually ordered me to control my client. My nerves were so beyond shot.

It took the jurors all of an hour to convict. Mr. Warren was expressionless as the foreperson read the verdict. Afterward, I went to the pens and told him I'd file an appeal for him. He stared straight ahead, moving his lips. I couldn't hear anything coming out. I didn't even think he knew I was there.

***

I'd just finished the formal appeal paperwork and taken it to the mail room for filing when Gunther walked into my office.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"We lost." I was too tired to be defensive. At least right now. I was sure next week I'd be apologizing incessantly for not handling things correctly.

"Did you file for an appeal?"

"Yep. Just sent it to the mail room," I snapped without meaning to. "Sorry," I said. "My nerves are really frayed."

"Yeah, I can tell. You look like you've aged ten years in a week."

Gee thanks, Gunther, I thought, looking down. But, as usual, he seemed oblivious to my feelings.

"It's Thursday afternoon. Why don't you take the rest of today and tomorrow off and have a long weekend."

His kindness took me by such surprise, I actually felt my tear glands swelling in my throat. I'd never needed a break so much. This trial was just the worst. But no, I absolutely would not cry in front of my boss. I forced a smile, thanked him, and ducked down behind my desk to reach for my bag. I managed to keep my tears at bay until I got into my car.

It was only three o'clock but that was actually the beginning of rush hour in L.A. It took me nearly an hour and forty-five minutes to get to Westwood. Halfway there I realized I could use the extra time tonight and tomorrow to move into my new place. I'd pack tonight, move early tomorrow morning, spend the afternoon buying furniture and other odds and ends, and would be ready to practice my heart out all Friday night and Saturday day before my private with Sasha. My tears dried. As soon as I got home, I popped another Sasha DVD into the computer while stuffing as many clothes as possible into my three suitcases.

As I'd projected, it took all of three trips in my little Prius between Westwood and Hollywood for me to move my entire stash of earthly possessions. I got a bit choked up when I looked around James's apartment for the last time. This was my first apartment in my new city. And I'd shared it with someone I once loved. As excited as I was to start my new life, bittersweet tears welled in my throat as I remembered spending summer Sunday mornings with James lounging out on the balcony, reading the paper and drinking homemade mimosas well into the afternoon, watching traffic on the Wilshire corridor, discussing an exhibit at the Hammer museum or a play at the Geffen Theater we wanted to see, foreign cities we would explore together, how fulfilling our law careers would be once I passed the bar and started working and he landed his dream job. Well, that was now my past. As the months rolled by, those Sundays became shorter and shorter, we rarely went to galleries or the theater, we never traveled abroad. And I certainly didn't have my dream job. I blinked the rest of my tears away and picked up my last bag.

I felt like I should leave some kind of note for James. I ripped a piece of paper off a legal pad I carried in my bag and sat at the desk for some time, trying to figure out what to write. Finally, I just put my pen to the paper and wrote what first came to my brain.

Hey, boss gave me the day off since my trial ended so I used to it pack and move into the new place. I'll miss it here but I know I need to move on, and so do you. I'm excited about my new apartment. It's in Hollywood, if I didn't tell you. Maybe if you're ever in the area, you can stop by and see it. I'll bring the keys and garage remote back tomorrow and leave them with the doorman, unless you want me to do something else with them, in which case, text me.

Let's try to stay friends.

Rory

Tears rolled down my cheeks all over again. This was really goodbye, I thought as I took one last look around before closing the front door for good. I was still crying when I used the remote to open the garage door for the last time. I almost couldn't see through my clouded contact lenses when I pulled out onto the street.

But my tears had dried by the time I pulled into my new garage. One door closes, another opens, as the saying goes. Plus, I'd need all my energy for hauling my last set of books up two flights of stairs--three, actually, including those leading from the garage.

When I was finally done, I opened my patio door and went out onto the balcony and sat on the cement--I'd definitely have to get a set of lawn chairs very soon--and surveyed my new surroundings. Over two shorter adjacent buildings, I could see the spire extending up from the Columbia Records building, and, if I strained far enough, I could even make out the domed theater at the big Arclight Cinema down Sunset. If I stood near the balcony railing and peered to my left I could see the masses of people walking around the touristy area on Hollywood in front of the Chinese Theater and the Roosevelt Hotel, many with their heads bent down and snapping photos with their phones, presumably at the named stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I bet if I bought high-powered binoculars I'd be able to see stars arriving on the red carpet for movie premieres. I could even make out the Johnny Depp impersonator. One of them, anyway. And I had an easy view of the mall that housed the studio. And, interestingly, I was far enough away that the noise didn't carry too badly. Even so, I'd lived near the Opera House in San Francisco, so I was used to after-theater pedestrian noise. It didn't bother me. Far from it. The more energy, the more alive I felt.

My cell phone beeped. I walked in and saw it was my sister calling. Just the sight of her name deflated me. We hadn't talked in a while. She didn't know I'd broken up with James, and that my trial went to crap. I wasn't sure I was in the mood but I answered anyway.

"Hey." I tried to sound chipper.

"Hey, Rory," she said. I could tell I was on speakerphone. She was still at the office. "Just a sec, okay?"

"Okay," I said, and sat on hold for what felt like minutes. I would have fixed myself a glass of water but I had no glasses. I walked back out on the balcony and sat back down. Eventually she returned.

"Okay, okay, sorry," she said, taking me off speakerphone.

"What's up?"

"Honey, are you okay. I just heard from James that you two broke up. What happened?"

"Oh, you know. It's okay. I'm still friends with him. I just...we just grew apart, you know?" I really didn't feel like discussing it with her and wanted her off my case. It really wasn't her business, even if James was her friend and she'd introduced us.

"Grew apart? What do you mean?"

At first I wondered if James had put her up to this to get information out of me but soon realized it wasn't something he'd do, especially when he was cheating on me. But I didn't want to tell her about that. It brought back bad feelings and made me feel like a loser. She was just being her nosy self.

"We just realized we were better off as friends, Jackie. There's not much more to say."

"Not much more to say? Are you kidding? You guys were so--"

"I don't really want to talk about it, okay?" A group of break dancers had drawn a crowd down on Hollywood. They were the best I'd seen yet. One guy was small. A larger man began patting him on the head. The small guy rolled himself up into a ball and the taller guy made like he was bouncing a basketball. It was fantastic.

"Okay," she said, drawing her voice up at the end in a perturbed manner, indicating it wasn't.

"Anyway, how are you?" I hoped, probably in vain, that I could redirect the subject.

She took a deep breath as if she was annoyed but was going to have to humor me. "I'm fine. Good, actually. Everything's going well at work. Andy is good. I made the last payment on my student loans so he took me out to celebrate."

"That's great."

"Yeah. How about you? I mean, considering... How's your job?"

"Fine," I lied.

She snickered. "You don't sound so sure about that. Rore, you need to talk about it?"

"No, it's fine. Really." The little guy was now moonwalking like Michael Jackson. He was small but clearly the star of the group.

"Okay," she said in the same perturbed manner as before. "Rory?" she said after a pause.

"Yeah, I'm still here."

She snickered again. "Good. Good. Um, James said you were dancing again." She said the word 'dancing' as if she were talking about stripping.

"Well, not again. I mean, I took up ballroom dancing at a local studio."

Another pause. "Yeah. Well he said you were doing a lot of it. Like you'd become obsessed or something."

The break dancers finished and were receiving lots of applause from the substantial crowd they now had. I really did not want to deal with this right now. "I'm enjoying my life," I said bluntly.

She took a long breath. "Rory, come on, don't be defensive. I have to make sure you're not having any issues again. You know, like before?"

I said nothing.

"Come on, I have to look out for you. You're my little sister. Rory?"

I wanted to hang up. I pulled my phone away from my ear to look at the time. I had to get ready for class soon.

"Don't worry about me, okay. I'm good. I'm really good. I have to get going now."

"Rory, don't hang up."

"Why? I really have to go. We'll talk again soon." I heard voices in her background, heard her telling them to wait a second. "Thanks for calling," I said and pushed "end call."

I walked back inside and shut the patio door behind me. When I saw my bags still sitting haphazardly on the floor, I realized I hadn't even told her I'd moved into a very cool new apartment. It hadn't even occurred to me. The happiest thing in my life right now, besides dance, and I'd forgotten to even mention it. This was how it was with my sister. I always ended up feeling badly about myself whenever I talked to her. I always ended up focusing on the negative things.

Tomorrow morning would have to be furniture day, I thought as I opened a suitcase and unpacked a bed sheet and thin blanket and laid them out on my bedroom floor into a makeshift bed. I took a pillow out of the garbage bag I'd carried it in, pulled a pillowcase over it and threw it on top of the blanket. L.A. was never that cold, but it could get down to the fifties at night. Hopefully my one little blanket and twin sheet set from my dorm room, seemingly a lifetime ago, now would be enough till I could get a bed and new bedclothes. I took Toto, a little grey stuffed dog with a red bow, out of the same bag and plopped him on top of the pillow. Childhood best friends had given him to me before I left Mebane for Winston-Salem for the performing arts school. He symbolized home away from home. I'd always kept him.

I felt better once I was dressed for dance and on my way to the studio. It took me less than fifteen minutes to walk there. I loved my peaceful tree-lined street, and I loved just as much turning off it and walking down to Hollywood Boulevard, where I met up with all the shoppers, tourists, street performers, celebrity impersonators, tour guides, restaurant-goers, bar-hoppers, you name it. So cool I'd never have to spend time searching for a parking space in that crazy mall parking lot. Nor would I have to take the subway back downtown after classes just to get my car to drive it all the way across town. And I'd be able to take the subway to and from work. No more stressful commutes in the city of traffic insanity! Not on a daily basis, anyway. By the time I got to the studio, I was back to my chipper, pre-Jackie-call self.

***

"Oh my gosh, you totally have to come see my apartment! I love it!" I squealed to Rajiv in west coast swing.

"So I take it, it worked out?" He laughed.

"I got receipts for my checks, got the keys. I'm all moved in."

"Cool." He nodded.

Rajiv was the type of person my mother would have wanted me to end up with. Hyper responsible, mellow, concerned about his friends. I kind of wanted to find him a nice girlfriend.

"So who's the mysterious Alex?"

"I still don't know," I said.

He simply raised his eyebrows.

I shrugged. I know, as happy as I was, it still worried me I might have someone else's place.

I stayed for one dance with Rajiv at the practice party then left, remembering I had no food at home. Nor did I have utensils to eat with. I ran into a nearby Wendy's and got a small frosty and order of fries, took them home, and ate on the kitchen floor atop a mound of napkins. My first meal in my first apartment that was wholly mine. It was delicious! I left half the fries in the fridge for tomorrow. I know, not ideal for breakfast, but it would have to do until I explored my area and found a grocery.

I slept unbelievably well, given I had no bed. The padded carpet helped. I didn't hear a whole lot of noise. At least of the kind that bothered me enough to wake me.

Saturday morning, I stacked my books up against my living room walls in several piles, as high as they'd go without falling over. I folded and placed as many clothes as I could on the top shelf of the closet, and arranged my shoes on its floor. I left underwear and bras and everything that could fit in my suitcases, which I propped open against my bedroom wall. I definitely needed a chest of drawers. I put my laptop and mini printer in a corner on my bedroom floor opposite the bedclothes. I put all the DVDs I'd just bought, along with some old CDs, against the living room wall opposite the one with the huge window. At least I knew where things would go once I had furniture to put them on. I decided to go to the IKEA on Sunday, so I could spend as much of Saturday as possible practicing for my lesson with Sasha.
Chapter 21

When I got to the studio Saturday, to my dismay there were no squares available in the practice room. So I couldn't reserve any space. I thought of going home and trying to practice my arms at least in my large, mirrored sliding closet doors. But the carpet would make it impossible to move my feet properly. Plus it would take time to run back and forth. Like the last few hours of cramming for an exam, knots were forming in my stomach that I'd never meet Sasha's sky-high expectations.

I knew the ladies lounge had large mirrors and a tiled floor with a slick-enough surface. I'd seen people breaking in new shoes in there.

I walked in and set my things down, plopped down on a bench and began to change my shoes. The second I sat, the room filled with people. I sensed eyes on me and looked up to see many of the women from my Sasha and Bronislava classes. It made sense since this is where the ladies' lockers were, and the serious students were the ones most likely to rent them. Each woman looked away as soon as I made eye contact with her. It was a strange feeling, like people had been talking about me. I shook it off, telling myself I was just being hyper self-conscious because I was nervous about Sasha. Or maybe it was just because I was the new girl here. All the international-style students seemed to know each other. It had been so much easier to make friends with the social dance students, where most of those taking first level were new.

I couldn't shake the feeling of being disliked so, so I left and went to the practice room. It was definitely packed; they hadn't lied at reception about there being no rehearsal space.

I spotted Sasha and Cheryl in the back room. I almost didn't recognize him. He didn't have his hair slicked back. Without the gel, his long black locks were wavy and unruly. My stomach tightened. He looked all sexy and untamed. He said something to Cheryl, then stood back to look at her footwork. While he watched, he lifted his hand to his chin as if concentrating. Suddenly, he blinked, and his eyes jumped to me. I immediately looked away. But I couldn't help but glance back. He blinked again, shook out his beautiful mane, and returned his gaze to her. I tried to practice arms on the bench, until someone else sat down too closely to me and I almost whacked her. I closed my eyes and tried to envision the movement instead.

Finally, what seemed like eons later, Sasha opened the back door and Cheryl emerged. I hadn't gotten up yet but she immediately found me and narrowed her eyes in greeting. I tried to smile anyway, but I was so nervous I'm sure it came across as completely fake. She strode toward me, and passed me so fast she actually created a bit of wind.

Oh get over yourself, lady.

His dark eyes fixed on me again. As soon as my gaze connected with his, he slowly lifted his left hand and motioned with his pointer finger toward me, in a classic sexy come-hither call that for a split second made my nether regions fill with hot liquid. Control, I said to myself and took a breath.

He narrowed the door a bit as I passed through, and my bare shoulder brushed his solid left pec.

"How did your performance go?" I asked as he closed the door behind me.

"It went well, thank you," he replied with gentlemanly polish that made me swoon. "And how is your new apartment? It's nice, no?"

Was he clairvoyant? I felt my jaw drop.

"Yessss, it's great. But...how did you know?"

"How did I know?" Now he looked confused. "Because," he flashed me that bemused half frown, half smile I was by now getting used to, "my friend Frank told me you moved in." As my confusion grew so did his frown. Suddenly he raised his brows as if he'd just figured something out. "Did they not tell at the front desk that I was the one who'd left the message?"

I shook my head. "The note said just to call Frank and tell him that I danced with someone named Alex."

He flashed me that bemused look again. "Oh, so you knew from the note, then," he said, raising his eyebrows at my continued blank stare.

"But I don't dance with anyone named Alex."

"You don't?" He took my hand and twirled me fast several times, into the center of the floor, making me concentrate on spotting and maintaining my center lest I lose balance. "What exactly are we doing together now, please tell me?" He stopped me fast, and held me in a close hold, his sly, sexy grin all of an inch above my forehead.

"You're Alex?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Who did you sign up to have lessons with at the front desk?"

"Sasha!" I shouted, causing a few people outside the glass doors to glance in at us.

"No, that's what my Russian friends call me." His lips twitched. He looked at me as if I were the nuttiest person he'd ever met. "My American name is Alex. That's what Frank and my friends and associates here call me. That's what you should call me too."

"But everyone in the studio calls you Sasha."

He rolled his eyes. "That is true. That's just because when I first came here I didn't know my proper name in English. I didn't know not to use my Russian name. Now I know and am trying to...change. To sound more professional and...to just fit in."

"But..." I said. No, he was nuts. "I can't call you Alex. Not now. Not ever! Alex and Sasha are, like, two totally different people. I can't even believe the same person calls himself by both names."

"My real name is Alexander," he insisted. He pronounced the name with a thick Russian accent that made my knees weak. I couldn't help let a giggle escape. "Why are you laughing? They are both nicknames for the same name." Now he looked truly confused.

I shook my head. "No. Alex is, like, a construction worker or an engineer, or a college student. Or..." I rolled my eyes. "A lawyer."

His frown intensified. "But Sasha is a girl's name here."

"No!" I shouted inadvertently again. "I mean, yes, it, it can be, but Sasha for a man is so...exotic. And artistic and dancerly. And just...sexy hot!" I was immediately embarrassed. "Anyway, I'm going to keep calling you Sasha. If that's okay. I want you to be my Russian. I mean Russian. I want you to be Russian." Good lord, I seriously need help.

He looked away for a moment, raising his eyebrows at the back wall as if trying hard to comprehend the babbling American. Then he took a breath, blinked a couple times, and turned his gaze back toward me, another one of those sly, crooked smiles growing slowly across his lips. "I guess you can call me Sasha. If you really want to. But just know that I am Alex in my American life. I mean outside of dance."

"What life outside of dance?" I giggled, then realized I might have offended him. Who was I to suggest that his whole life revolved around dance? He might have lots of other things going on. Did he, I wondered? There was so much I wanted to know about this man. And so little he seemed to want to tell me. And could I have offended him by implying that he shouldn't become completely American, that he retain some of his Russianness? I couldn't read his thoughts at all.

He didn't seem offended. He simply continued to look at me with that wily, cocky smile which was growing more mischievous by the nanosecond, making my insides tingle. Stop looking at me like that, I thought.

"Well, it is close to the studio. Right?" he said.

"What? Oh, yes. It's really close. It's great!" I said.

"Good. So it will be easy for you to be here often now, I hope?"

"Definitely. It's actually perfect for both the studio and work. I can just hop on the subway to get downtown to my office. So thank you for finding it for me, um...Alex." I pronounced the name flatly and crassly.

He squinted at me, then looked away.

"I mean, I'm sorry if I offended you. I'll say it nicely. Alex." This time I pronounced the word as sweetly as I could. It still came out sounding flat and bland, in my opinion.

He laughed and turned back toward me. "Don't worry. I don't offend very easily." He said this with a raise of his brows.

Okay, I decided I wouldn't worry about offending him. "Good, Sasha," I said, giggles returning. That name most definitely did not sound flat. No, it was impossible to make it sound so.

He rolled his eyes again, but this time with a smile and a nod. "So, tell me, how has your practicing been coming along?"

"Um, honestly?" I started.

"It is said that's the best policy." His voice seemed to lower a few keys, making him sound more serious.

"True." I giggled at his Americanism. Yeah, this man really did want to become as American as possible.

"Besides, lying to me won't help you. I can very easily tell how much you've worked by watching how you move, Rory." His use of my name sounded somehow commanding and gave his words an admonitory note that, oddly, sent a tingle down my spine.

"Yes, I'm sure you can." My words came out in a squeak. "Well, okay, I mean, I practiced a lot in rumba classes and at the practice parties, and in my closet mirror at home and in the bathroom here..."

At the last part he raised one eyebrow.

"There's a big mirror in the ladies lounge," I continued. "Anyway, I've been super busy with everything--with the move, especially, and the stupid trial..."

He looked at me straight on, no raised eyebrows now. He had no patience with excuses.

"The trial is over. And I'm all moved. As you know. I'll practice more this week. I promise."

"I understand," he pronounced after a lengthy pause. "Your progress depends on you, Rory." He looked at me straight-on again, his eyes widening, his pupils penetrating me.

"I know. You're right." I clasped my hands together like I often did when I was nervous.

"Let's start again, then." He walked to the iPod and turned the music on low. "Let's see your rumba walks," he ordered, turning back toward me.

I counted to myself and began moving around the perimeter of the room, as before, as best as I could, self-conscious as all hell with his eyes on me from behind again. I couldn't help but glance back around at one point.

"Don't do that," he said, his eyes, which had been focused on my lower half, darting up instantaneously to meet mine. His tone was so severe it made me wobble a bit. "When you look anywhere other than directly forward you disconnect from the floor and lose your balance. Concentrate, R-R-Rory."

He was saying my name a lot tonight. It was kind of sexy, even though it was also kind of chastising. "Sorry," I said, whipping my head back around to face front.

"Don't apologize. Just don't do it again," he ordered.

Even though his words were harsh, I was somehow able to concentrate better. Knowing his eyes weren't wandering from me, or just looking at certain body parts for titillation alone, knowing how serious he was about me moving properly, all made me want to work harder for him. I suddenly longed to be as perfect as he wanted me to be. And I felt myself concentrating harder, and walking with more balance and control.

"It's actually a little bit better," he said after a few rotations around the room, almost knocking me off my feet. He came up behind me, and, as before, made adjustments, then trailed behind me as I walked again. "Not perfect, by any means," he added. "But better. Not anywhere near as good as it should be. But better."

This guy! What was up with this so-called praise?

"Here, face mirror. Face the mirror," he said, correcting himself. "Hold out your arms."

I did as he said. He pushed down on my shoulder, elongated my right arm by brushing his fingertips along it from the shoulder down to the wrist.

"Your rib cage moves first, remember. That's what causes your arm to move. Otherwise it looks like you are just flailing about, flapping like a chicken."

I laughed. He didn't. He was all seriousness now. He drew his hand back up to my shoulder, then placed his fingers underneath, just below my armpit. He held my side, his palm on my back, his fingers rounding around the edge of my breast. He placed his left hand on my left side in the exact same position.

"First your leg goes," he said, taking a step sideways. "Then, your hip follows." He settled into his right hip, his pelvis so close behind me, my hips automatically moved forward and to the side in line with his. "Then your rib cage."

He moved my torso with his hands still on the outer edges of my breasts, to the right in line with my right hip. Pulling each hand a couple inches toward my center so his palms would be directly over my nipples flashed through my mind. But I tried hard to concentrate on how he was moving my body. I would have to do it without him as soon as our lesson was over. The best way to remember the movement was to remember how I felt his body move--his leg moving between my legs compelling me to step forward with him, his pelvis rotating into my right hip, causing that hip to rotate and shift, and his hands moving my torso so the edge of my right breast, where he was holding me, nearly caught up with my right hip at the end of the slow count. I had to remember his fingers. Where they weren't and where they were.

"Good," he said, taking a step now with his left foot and repeating the movement on the other side. "You will have another chance to show me how much you can improve in two weeks' time," he said, releasing me after we'd danced the basic to a whole song.

"What do you mean?" I turned toward him.

"I have to miss next Saturday's lesson again. I am very sorry. My new partner and I have decided to test our partnership at a competition in Orange County. Actually, I would very much like for you to come and watch. I think it would be very educational for you. The students compete during the day and the professionals at night. I would very much like you to come to both."

"Oh yes, I'd love to!" I was sad about missing our lesson but thrilled to see him compete live now that I'd watched several of his earlier competition tapes.

His eyes brightened at my enthusiasm and a dimpled smile grew across his lips, this one more genuine and of the non-cocky variety. His commanding teacher tone was all gone and he now oozed with boyish charm. "Good. Seeing you there will make me very happy. You seem very serious about dance and I think you will get a lot out of it."

"Where is it and what time should I get there?" I was so excited I was nearly bouncing.

"They will have all the information downstairs," he said, now eyeing the door.

I turned around to see Arabelle outside, pacing back and forth, looking harried and impatient. I looked at the clock and realized we were nearly ten minutes past time.

"I'm sorry, Rory, I have to go now to prrrractice." Those uber sexy rolling r's again. "I look forward to seeing you Saturday," he added with a raise of his brow, making my insides tingle again.

I found myself able only to grin and nod.

"And Rory?" he baritoned as I stepped around Arabelle. I turned back. "I also look forward to you not disappointing me next lesson." No smile now; his commanding tone was back. Again his dark blues bore right through me, piercing every pore.

I felt the space between my thighs clench and a jolt of electricity shoot up to my chest. "Um, no," I squeaked, then turned and fled.

***

I texted Samantha while walking back to my apartment, nearly crashing into tourists multiple times. I usually didn't text and walk, but I was far too excited.

There's a competition in O.C. next Saturday. Sasha invited me to watch him compete!!! Come with!

Whoa, I didn't think he'd compete since his partnership with A is so new! she texted back. I'm competing in the Pro Am division earlier in the day. I will DEFINITELY stay for the night comp now!!!

Cool! I didn't know you were competing?

Just started. You should come early and watch me! I'll have my little cheer squad there and you can meet peeps from my studio :-D

Will so be there!

Awesome!
Chapter 22

For the next week the whole studio was practically orgasmic with talk of the competition. I'd been so consumed with work and the breakup and move I hadn't realized how many people were competing. Kendra and Josie were dancing in the amateur Latin division, Pepe and his pro partner in professional rhythm, Paulina in the Standard Ballroom Pro Am, Bronislava in the same comp as Sasha, and Sasha was competing both in the Pro with Arabelle and Pro Ams with Luna, Cheryl, and one of the young Russian women who took all of the international Latin classes.

"It's been the talk of the school for weeks. Where have you been?" Rajiv teased when I asked him if he was going.

"I guess that crazy trial just really stressed me out." I shrugged.

"Uh-huh. I'm pretty sure I asked you if you were going. A few times. And you didn't know. But Sasha invites you and...now you're there." He laughed.

I was embarrassed but glad Rajiv acknowledged my feelings toward Sasha. He seemed to have gotten the hint now that I really valued my friendship with him but definitely wanted to leave it at that--a friendship. I was excited for him to meet Samantha.

***

The all-day comp on Saturday meant I had to arrange for my cable and internet set-up and furniture delivery on Friday, since neither company made service calls on Sunday.

"I'm really sorry I have to miss work two Fridays in a row," I told Gunther. "I can definitely do the research from home." With the Warren trial over, I was back to doing small research assignments for him and the other partners.

"That's so odd that they can't come on Saturday," he said in response to my white lie.

I didn't want to tell him I couldn't be home on Saturday because of a ballroom competition.

***

The practice space was booked by competitors all week, preventing me from practicing there myself, though I learned a lot by watching others. The excitement and the always elusive strain for perfection were somehow infectious and I felt like others' learning seeped through to me. I also did something smart. I'd remembered seeing a piece of parquet on the carpeted floor at the shoe store, so I went back and asked the owner if he knew where I could buy the same. He happened to have some pieces in back for sale. So I now had a makeshift parquet floor in my bedroom in front of my closet mirrors, albeit a small one.

"What do you think?" Lilly hollered at me when I walked into the ladies changing room at the studio.

I looked in the direction of her voice. Through the crowd I spotted her standing in front of the back mirror in a fire-engine red, very form-fitting, long-sleeved pantsuit that was covered with shimmies from the top of her bust to the ankle. The sleeves were made of a translucent mesh. The costume completely transformed her. She looked a good fifteen years younger.

"Oh my gosh, Lilly! You look absolutely fabulous!"

"Trying it on for the first time!" She did a little twist, rocking the shimmies.

"Well, I would say no adjustments are needed whatsoever! What are you competing in? Latin pro/am?"

"No, I don't take those," she said with a hoot. "I'm a social gal. I'm doing the pro/am mambo championships. With Pepe, of course!"

"Oh my, I didn't even know about that one. What time?"

"Nine a.m. I know, early. But I figure I can wear the costume all day long!"

"I sure would. It's amazing," I said. That meant Raj and I would have to get there earlier than we'd planned. Saturday was going to be a long day.

"What about you?" she asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"What are you competing in?"

"Oh me? Nothing. I just learned about it." I was surprised she asked.

She frowned.

"I mean, I just started here. But I'll be there to cheer you all on!"

"Wow. Someone's bad, to drop the ball on you," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're definitely good enough to kick some real ass out there."

I giggled at her foul language. She had this Betty White look to her. "Oh, well, thanks." She'd embarrassed and confused me. I didn't really understand what she meant by "someone's bad." She must've sensed my confusion.

"Even if you compete at the newcomer level, it makes the studio look good to have students winning in all categories. Plus, studio and teacher both get cash when one of their own wins. That's why I'm surprised no one pushed you to dance."

"Oh wow, that's interesting. I'm so new to all this, I didn't even know they existed," I said.

"Yeah, they happen all the time. There's one in Vegas coming up in June that everyone goes to too. And one at the end of the summer in Miami. I'm sure by then at least one of your teachers will be stressing how important they are to your growth as a dancer. They're a real money-maker."

Was this why Sasha invited me, I wondered. To prep me for Vegas in June? I didn't know how much these cost but I wasn't sure I had that kind of money.

Lilly chuckled. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be cynical."

I must have had a shocked expression on my face.

"The students sometimes win money too. And they're crazy fun! I mean, hello!" She motioned to her mirrored reflection, shaking her shimmies again.

I giggled.

"Oh don't worry, she'll definitely be with Sasha in Vegas!" Kendra hooted, raising her eyebrows as she strutted in, followed by Josie who carried two large shopping bags.

In my periphery I saw a tall figure in black rise, her head jerking in my direction. The lighting was dark and she blended into the shadows a bit. I squinted. Cheryl. She wore a sleek, form-fitting black gown, covered, and I mean millimeter to millimeter, with shimmering crystals. The gown was spectacular. At first I was surprised at how much it covered her since I was used to seeing her in next to nothing. But it was so tight, it showed off her ample chest and shapely hips far better than something low cut would have. She gave me a very disapproving once-over--what the hell, I was dressed in practice clothes, of course I looked worse than she did--then raised her chin, which was becoming her trademark look with me, and turned back to herself in the mirror. She turned slowly around, making sure I had adequate time to see the side, which was slit all the way up to her hip bone. When she had her back completely to me, I saw the dress was cut all the way down to the small of her back. Okay, not as covering as I'd thought.

Funny, because my chest was a bit big for my size as well. Not as large as hers but not small. I would never wear anything that emphasized that part of me. I was always trying to hide them, in fact. A lesson from ballet. I would never have chosen such a dress for myself, yet I was jealous of her comfort in showing off her body.

"Does she really have to come in here?" I heard Luna whisper rather loudly as she approached Cheryl.

They both glared at me in the mirror. What were they on about? I could come in here if I wanted. This was as much my room as theirs.

"Are you kidding? At the rate she's going now, she'll be ready for open gold by Vegas," I heard a rich, deep voice say behind me, followed by the sensation of a large, protective hand cupping my shoulder. "Seriously, how exciting is this, y'all!" Paulina said, now rubbing her hands together as if we were about to encounter a splendid feast.

"Oh gawd," Luna said, dramatically grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Cheryl's exposed back.

I couldn't believe how they were acting. Was this not sophisticated Los Angeles?

"Where's your costume?" I asked Paulina, trying to talk over them. "I know you're competing as well!"

"You'll see it soon enough, dear," she said, patting my shoulder as if she knew what I was trying to do. She turned and sashayed slowly toward the door, passing within a millimeter of Cheryl's towel but not touching it, and saying nothing.

"Where is Paulina supposed to go?" Kendra said to Luna after Paulina was gone.

Cheryl tied the towel around her, and she and Luna spoke to each other, quietly now. Luna patted the side of her hair, though it seemed already to be flat.

"Well, I don't know--the men's room, maybe?" Cheryl said under her breath but loudly enough for us to hear. Luna snickered.

"Why would she go to the men's room? Would you feel comfortable changing in the men's room?" Kendra yelled.

"Of course not. I'm not a man," Cheryl said, now looking directly at Kendra.

Luna patted at her hair more rapidly now. It wasn't clear to me what she was doing, other than avoiding eye contact with us. Luna seemed to be the bark, Cheryl the bite.

"Neither is she. What's wrong with you?" Kendra asked.

"Please." Cheryl rolled her eyes.

Kendra opened her mouth but before she could say anything Luna managed to pipe up. "She's more used to male parts."

Kendra, Josie, Lilly, and I all exchanged frowns. "As are you, I'm sure," Kendra said laughing in disbelief.

"Oh really, don't be disgusting, Kendra."

"You're the one who's prejudiced and you're calling me disgusting?"

"You know what? Maybe we should just have private bathrooms in here. No changing rooms. Maybe we're all a little too immature for this," Cheryl said, self-consciously tying the towel tighter. Or maybe not self-consciously.

I began to wonder if Luna's original words were meant in reference to Kendra and not Paulina.

Kendra shook her head in disbelief. "You know what? You should petition the management for that. Because I'm sure they'd do whatever you want. And don't worry, I'm so not attracted to you," Kendra said, whipping off her yoga pants and reaching into the shopping bag. I noticed her wrist shaking.

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," Cheryl said, throwing the towel on the bench and walking out.
Chapter 23

I wasn't sure what to wear to the competition. The flier said formal wear for nighttime events, dressy casual for daytime. But I wasn't about to come all the way back to L.A. to change before the evening dances. So I chose a candy-apple red sundress with satin-y red ballet flats and a pink cardigan. I tossed a pair of black velvet high heels and a black diaphanous organza shawl into my tote for night. That should work for both. I was glad I wasn't competing. The whole subway ride to Rajiv's I had pretty serious butterflies for those who were.

But my butterflies started pumping into adrenaline-fueled excitement once the bellhop flung open the glass door and we walked into the fancy hotel, replete with chandeliers, sunken lounges and copper-railed circular staircases. We followed impeccably coiffed people wearing black silk robes bearing the names of various dance studios to a grand check-in area, with several long tables lined up with people sitting behind them, taking cash and handing out tickets and booklets. It cost twenty-five dollars to watch the daytime competitions, and a steep seventy dollars for the nighttime.

"It's worth it," said the clerk, apparently noticing the bewildered expressions on our faces. "You're going to be here for twelve hours. You'd pay the same for a dance performance at Segerstrom Hall and that only lasts about two and a half hours."

I could see her point. But if comps cost this much just to watch, I wondered how much it would be to dance in them.

I heard quickstep music coming from behind two large oak doors down a long hallway. My heart began to race with excitement. There were several tables right outside the ballroom entrance. They were layered with fliers and newspapers, the fliers advertising ballroom competitions, boot camps, studios, and costumers, most in the U.S. but some even in Europe and Australia. I opened one of the newspapers. It was full of articles covering recent ballroom competitions all over the world. They appeared to be free, so I took one of each and slipped them into my tote. A large bouncer-type man took our tickets, then stamped the inside of our wrists. When he shone a flashlight on the spot he stamped, a luminescent dancerly image appeared. Apt and cool!

We walked into the ballroom. It was only eight thirty in the morning and the first competition was solidly underway. Small white Christmas-tree-like lights lined the perimeter of the ballroom floor, making the parquet shine. The floor itself was much bigger than I expected. The dancers really whizzed around it like marathoners, doing quickstep runs, jetés, and slides, the ladies' beautiful gowns swirling about. It was like I was transported into a fairy tale.

Videographers and still camera photographers were everywhere, their constant flashes making it feel like we were at a fashion show. The room was chock-full of people loudly cheering on their friends and family, or fellow students and colleagues. Judges surrounded the periphery of the ballroom and walked around holding writing pads, meticulously jotting notes and scrutinizing dancers. Even though it was so early, the male judges wore tuxes and the women floor-length cocktail gowns. I'd noticed it was announced in the booklet that some of the judges were from the popular TV shows "Dancing With the Stars" and "So You Think You Can Dance." I tried to look for their faces but it was so dark outside of the camera flashes and hard to concentrate.

Banquet tables surrounded the dance floor. Behind them were risers. Most people right now were at a table.

"Rory, Rajiv!" I looked in the direction of the voice and saw Mitsi sitting on her knees in her banquet chair, waving us over. "We have these," she said, motioning to the tables around her. Rajiv sat opposite her, pulling out the chair closest to the dance floor for me.

"Aw, thank you," I said.

"I'll go get us some water." He walked to the back corner where they had a huge table full of water coolers and paper cups. A group of dancers hovered around them.

There were several people sitting at our tables but I didn't know anyone but Mitsi. Various items of clothing--sweaters and leg warmers and heavy shawls--were strewn about several of the chairs. It was pretty cold in here. I was glad I brought my cardigan.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we're about to begin the first round of the Pro Am Mambo Championships," announced a male emcee. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore a black tux with a red bow tie. He stood on an elevated platform at the end of the ballroom and spoke into a large microphone. Several important-looking people surrounded him. "This is heat one, of four heats, division A. Judges, you are to recall twenty-four couples in all."

As the quicksteppers plopped down into banquet chairs to catch their breath and swig water, four lines of couples--the men clad in black lycra, the women in sassy, shiny, skimpy numbers, many of them resembling bikinis with short skirts--gathered at each of the floor's four corners. A person in a suit directed each group. It looked really cool, all these couples dressed to the nines walking out onto the floor from various corners at once, soon filling it.

Each man had a number pinned to the back of his shirt. The judges walked around taking notes of the numbers. I looked for Lilly. The competitors all looked much younger than she was. I flipped through my guidebook and looked for the mambo heats. It took a while but I finally found them. Wow, there were so many heats in so many competitions. The clerk who told us we'd be there for twelve hours was right. I ran my finger down the page, trying to find her name.

"Who are you looking for?" asked Mitsi.

"Lilly and Pepe," I said.

"She's in the C age group. So she'll be coming up in"--she moved her head back and looked up, counting--"about nine more heats."

"Thank you, couples. Music, please," said the emcee, his voice smooth like suede.

The music began with a blast. It was so loud, I felt like I was at a pop concert. It thrilled me. The dancers began rapid footwork. Dresses shimmied. All I could see was flashing red. I loved it. I wanted badly to get out there and dance to the music right along with them. I tried hard to contain myself in my seat without bouncing around too much.

I finally spotted Lilly and Pepe from the corner opposite us. I waved madly. Pepe spotted me first, pointed, and they both waved back. She looked simply radiant. She mouthed something to me. I could tell from her lips that the first couple words were "thank you." I nodded and mouthed back that she looked gorgeous, motioning down at her dress. She grinned like she was on cloud nine. She didn't look a tad nervous. As the heats went on, the audience grew, more chairs were filled, and people cheered and called out numbers more loudly until the cheers blended and I couldn't make out individual names or numbers.

Finally, Lilly's heat was called and Pepe led her out onto the dance floor, taking her as far to the center as possible. Several other couples had the same idea and there was a bit of a scrum in the middle.

"Go Lilly and Pepe!" I yelled, adding myself to the ever-increasing din.

The music blasted on and Lilly began shuffling her feet around the floor, her hips swaying so fast I could barely see them. The shimmies were zigzagging back and forth in a perfect diagonal pattern.

"You don't wear an outfit like that unless you really know what you're doing," Mitsi said laughing, echoing my thoughts. "And she does!"

There were five heats in the C age group altogether. It was by far the largest group, and the one with the most excited fans. Lilly got through to the finals, along with five other couples who'd stood out to me, in particular a small Asian woman with a tall black man. They were very popular too. The one number I could actually make out in all the roaring was "333," the number on that man's back.

"Go 422!" I tried to scream over them. Mitsi and Rajiv helped me, along with a couple of other people at our table. There then ensued a shouting contest between the "go 333"s and the "go 442"s. It soon became a joke. The Asian woman's supporters were obviously at the table directly across from us, and we made eye contact with each other, laughing and screaming out the numbers back and forth.

There were five rounds of competition in Lilly's category. She had to dance her buns off. I would have been passed out, the way she was moving. But damn, not Lilly. I was suddenly so proud to be her mambo teammate. I'd never much watched her before in practice since I was so focused on myself, but she was really blowing me away.

"Whoa, look at that!" I overheard an older man say to Rajiv as he returned from the back with more water. "Holy shit, that's friggin' amazing!" he said right as Lilly did the splits. He had to have been talking about her. Her ending was definitely the most dramatic.

Hmmm, he was good-looking. I made a mental note to tell her discreetly later.

The drums rolled and the winners were called. The last two standing were the Asian woman and black man, and our Lilly and Pepe. I couldn't believe she was still up there. I wanted to jump out of my seat.

The emcee took a breath. It seemed the whole ballroom was on pins and needles. "And the couple placing second, from Los Angeles...Lilly Baker and Pepe Lopez."

At first I went to applaud wildly then realized the other side was doing that. Because that meant Pepe and Lilly came in second, and their couple came in first. I still applauded. It was the right thing to do. And the Asian woman was really good. Even if she didn't do the splits or make her shimmies go in a perfect diagonal pattern.

"Someday I am going to beat her, I swear!" Lilly said, collapsing next to Mitsi.

"You did very well. You should be very proud of yourself. You know how it is. The judges just like her for whatever reason. She'll win until she quits dancing." This was from Roxy, always the cynic, who I just noticed had arrived.

"Hey, how come you're not dancing? You're more than good enough to win," I said, trying to be pleasant.

"Oh, I know. I just don't like the politics of it because of stuff like this," she said, pointing to Lilly. "I'm so over it." She flicked her wrist. As Pepe approached, she got up and walked toward him.

Lilly looked at me and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, the politics of it she doesn't like are that they make her dance in the C age group," she whispered to me.

"Really?" I said.

"Last time, she got reprimanded for dancing with the thirty-five- to forty-nine-year-olds. She said she pays the competition fees, she should be able to do what she wants. They told her it wasn't fair to her and she told them to eff off, she could hold her own. What happens? She practically comes in last place. And she swears it was just the head judge, Lucinda Macintosh, getting her back for not abiding by the rules. I'm sorry, but when you're in your fifties, you're just not going to have the stamina of a thirty-five-year-old. Be fair to yourself, you know?"

I nodded, trying to indicate I understood, not necessarily that I agreed. I didn't want to get myself in the middle of any squabbles between these two. It seemed like they had some history.

"You want to go get something to eat in the lounge?" Rajiv asked me. "It's past twelve."

My stomach was grumbling a bit. "Maybe something small," I said. My surging adrenaline had kept my hunger minimal.

When we got to the lounge it was full of dancers. I spotted him right away. I don't know how. He was surrounded by people. His back was to me; he was standing, facing a large round booth overflowing with dancers. He had his hair slicked back into a short ponytail. He wore the same black silk robe everyone wore over their costumes. It made me think of him naked and just having crawled out of bed, and momentarily made me weak-kneed. Then I saw her spidery little arm reaching around his back, possessively. Cheryl. She'd turned around, her eyes peeking around his earlobe. Her gaze met mine, her beady eyes sending a shiver down my spine. I wondered if Mitchell was here. She did her chin-raise at me, lowered it again, then turned toward him and threw her head back, laughing like she'd never heard anything as funny as what he'd just said.

He seemed to be immersed in a conversation with another man dressed just like him, wearing his hair in the exact same sleeked-back ponytail. But Sasha's was somehow so much more superb. Everything about him was on another level. He was the originator, everyone else the imitator. You could just tell. The way he stood, putting his weight on one hip very coolly, nodding from time to time, everyone looking up at him as if he were God, seeking his favor.

Then I noticed Arabelle flanked him on his other side. People seated were talking to her as well, regarding her the same way they did him. She turned to him. Her profile was drop-dead gorgeous. She had such a thin, sleek face, with cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass. And that long, swan neck. She gesticulated by raising her arm--long, graceful, ballerina-ish. Her body was the definition of perfection. Suddenly I felt a bit sick.

"You know what, I'm not very hungry yet," I said to Rajiv. "You get something. I'm going to head back to the ballroom."

"What? I heard your stomach grumble," he said.

I looked back at Sasha and Arabelle. More people had come through the door and now he was completely surrounded.

"Okay," Rajiv said. "I'm going to bring whatever I get into the ballroom. I've seen other people doing it so I know we're allowed to. Is there anything you'll share with me? Cheese fries? Calamari? Caesar salad?"

For some reason he looked worried.

"Okay, maybe I can have a calamari or two."

"Cool. You gonna go over and say hi?" He nodded toward Sasha.

I looked back toward him but couldn't even see him now; he was lost in the massive crowd that had formed around him. "No, I'm sure I'll see him inside later."

When I got back to the ballroom the room was again aswirl with dapper gentlemen in long-tailed tuxes, their short hair slicked back, and women in gorgeous floor-length ball gowns glimmering with rhinestones, their hair done up in elegant twists. For a few seconds I felt like I was transported to another era. It was like magic.

Roxy had taken my seat and I wanted to sit close to the ballroom floor, so I sat on the other side of Mitsi, at the next table over.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful. I feel like I've been carted into another century!" I chirped into Mitsi's ear.

"Maybe that's because this is Viennese waltz," she laughed. "It is from another century."

I flipped when I saw Paulina. Holy crap. She looked so unbelievably beautiful. She was so elegant and regal in her floor-length ball gown. It was deep green and complimented her red hair perfectly. Her translucent silk scarf trailed behind her so gracefully. She was truly a first-class ballroom dancer. Realizing my mouth must have dropped practically to the floor, I began waving like mad at her. She laughed in response.

She and her dapper, equally elegant partner were in perfect handhold, making a martini glass shape with their bodies. They looked so graceful but also so natural.

"I know, that's Paulina. Can you believe it?" Lilly said, brushing my arm.

They swirled around me again. This time I raised my arms high above my head and clapped. I couldn't take my eyes off them. They came around me once more and their dance ended just as she and her partner were facing Mitsi's table. They took their bows right in front of Mitsi and me--well, his bow, Paulina's curtsy. Lilly, Mitsi and I hooted and hollered like they'd just announced the winner. Paulina's partner smiled widely, then extended his arm toward her again, indicating his graciousness and inviting her to take another curtsy, which she did. So chivalrous! Yes, we definitely were in another time.

"You are absolutely gorgeous!" I yelled to Paulina as her partner took her hand in his and they dashed offstage.

"Thank you!" she mouthed back.

"You know what's really cool?" Mitsi said to me as another heat began.

"Everything?" I asked.

"When you see this all from above." She laughed. "Latin is best observed from where you are, but when you go to Blackpool--and you will go to Blackpool, I know it--go up to the top balcony during the standard dances and look down. The couples all make these perfect swirling patterns. It's dizzying, and beautiful."

I wondered why she thought I'd go to Blackpool. But I didn't want to talk right now. I just wanted to watch. To be dazzled.

"Okay, eat up," Rajiv said, settling in the chair in back of me and placing in front of us a big plastic bowl of mussels and a small tin of parmesan-crusted fries. When he opened the lid of the mussels, steam escaped and encapsulated my face. The tomato-based broth smelled good.

But then Paulina's heat was on again, now for quickstep, my favorite of the standard dances as it was so fast and fun, and felt like swing or jive. I promptly turned my attention back to the floor, looking for Paulina.

"Here they come!" Lilly squealed, right as I spotted my couple.

Down they ran, their feet perfectly in sync, breaking into a series of tiny skipping jetés as they passed us. Lilly bounced in her seat and Mitsi wooted, but I was so smitten with Paulina's enormous ballroom skills I simply sat there open-mouthed.

"What level is this?" I asked Mitsi without taking my eyes off the dance floor, which I would have had to do to find the answer in the booklet.

"Open gold. The winner gets a big fat scholarship."

"So the best of the best," I said.

"Yep."

"This is getting cold, Rory." I felt a finger pecking the back of my bicep.

I didn't feel like eating. My attention was too far elsewhere.

"Come on, you should at least eat something. You haven't eaten all day," Rajiv said when I turned.

To appease him, I took a fry and popped it into my mouth, then immediately turned back to the floor.

"Paulina's been doing standard a long time. The judges now love her. Don't worry, I'm sure she'll do well," Mitsi said to me.

When they left the floor and the next heat was called, Rajiv pushed the bowl of mussels in front of me. "The rest are yours," he said.

I glanced at the bowl. There were about a half dozen left. The mad-fun quickstep music returned--this time Benny Goodman's classic "Swing Swing Swing"--and my attention promptly returned to the floor and the swirling dresses and dapper gentlemen. I just wasn't hungry here.

I was on the edge of my seat when the winners were announced. Mitsi was right, thankfully. Paulina Reinner and her partner, whose very exotic sounding name was Maurizio Gonzo, were the second-to-last couple called, meaning they placed second. Mitsi cheered wildly. I did too though I was sad she didn't place first.

"Pot's still pretty big for second position too, and this is a really good placing for them," Mitsi said to me when she saw the angst on my face.

Paulina looked truly beatific as she stood on the podium, on the second-highest stand, while one of the judges placed a silver medallion around her neck and gave her a bouquet.

"Rory, I'm going to toss everything if you aren't going to finish," I heard Rajiv say behind me.

Man was he annoying me. Who can think of eating at a time like this?

I turned around, ready to snap at him. He held his head down and was looking up at me with puppy dog eyes. He really seemed committed to making sure I ate. I felt badly. He'd driven me here, he'd bought my food, and he was a good friend. I was being rude. I had to adjust my attitude. "I'm sorry," I said. "I just wanted to watch Paulina. I really like her."

"I understand. The mussels were good and I didn't want you to miss out." He smiled weakly.

"Well, thanks." I tried to smile. My energy was so pumped up, it really decreased my appetite, the way I imagined a runner felt right before a race. I hadn't expected my body to produce so much adrenaline just watching a dance competition. Plus, in all honesty, I didn't want to ingest the calories. I'd felt on edge after seeing tiny Arabelle and being in the midst of all these hyper-thin dancers with killer bodies. I looked at both bowls again. I figured I could eat the mussels. There weren't many left and they were healthy and low cal, especially if I shook off the broth. But no way was I touching those parm fries. "I'll eat the mussels, but you can have the fries. Or toss them out. Whatever you want to do."

I'd barely finished chewing when Paulina snuck up behind me and gave me an enormous bear hug.

"I'm so happy for you!" I shouted, turning and probably breaking her eardrum.

"I wanted first, but what can you do? That couple's been on top forever now. But whatevs. Jackpot was enough to get me another six months of lessons, so someday I will hopefully learn enough Latin to not make a total ass of myself!"

I shook my head at her. "Don't be ridiculous! You're so not a total ass." But meanwhile her words were reverberating in my head. "But wait. I mean, wow. There's enough money in the jackpots so you can pay for six whole months of lessons?" I hoped I didn't sound crass changing the subject to money.

Fortunately she laughed. She knew where I was coming from. "You have to get advanced enough to compete in the top levels and then you have to do enough comps that the judges start to know you and like you, and then you start to win. And you put the money back into the studio and take more classes and compete again and win again, and that's how this whole thing gets so addictive."

Hmmm.

"Awesome to see you, babe," Kendra said, coming up from behind and kissing me on the cheek. She and Josie were ready for their competition.

Kendra looked damn fine, dressed in an electric blue tux that opened in the front like the men's Latin costumes, but was taped all up Jennifer-Lopez-style, to keep her bra hidden. She had her hair slicked back, man-like. She actually made quite a hot man. Josie looked gorgeous in an electric blue two-piece samba costume. The top was basically a fancy bra and the skirt flared out in several layers of bubbles. She had a great figure and really pulled off her cutely skimpy costume.

"Okay, guys, wish us luck!" Kendra said as the emcee introduced the amateur Latin comp.

"Break a leg," Rajiv called out.

"Oh shit, don't say that to a dancer!" Kendra laughed.

"Merde, then!" I said.

"What's that mean?" Kendra called over her shoulder as she walked to the corner of the floor where she was directed to enter.

"It's 'shit' in French," I said.

"Oh hell. Why would you say that?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "That's what we always said in ballet!"

"You bunheads are frickin' weird!" she yelled.

"Yep! Merde!" I screamed, cackling.

The crowd, which was growing by the nanosecond, cheered like crazy when the dancers walked out on the floor and took position. Suddenly it sounded like we were in a boxing match. Not that I'd ever been to one of those, but the level of noise was insane. Certainly not like I'd ever expected from a dance competition.

"Go 222," I yelled as soon as I could see the number on Kendra's back.

Rajiv echoed me.

"Go 149!" I heard Pepe say.

I looked at him, seated at the next table over. I turned back to couple 149. The leader was a blond-haired, blue-eyed all-American boy dressed in a black tux that had the above-the-ankle cropped pants that were currently so in vogue. His shirt was flared open, revealing his pale skin but substantial muscles. He was small-boned but with those pecs, you could tell he was a little bodybuilder, this one. His follower was a compact dark-haired man who wore a burnt orange suit that complemented his skin tone very well. I didn't recognize either from the studio and assumed one was Pepe's boyfriend.

"222!" I yelled at him. I got his attention and he looked at me. I puffed out my cheeks and made a mock pouting look.

He teased back, sticking out his tongue, before yelling, "149!!"

All of a sudden, it seemed to get super crowded. I remembered noting in the booklet that this was the last competition before the all-popular Latin pro/am began, which would take up the rest of the day. One of Sasha's Russian students was in the back, stretching. You could see her feathery skirt peeking out of the bottom of her silk robe. She had very bronzed legs and her hair was pulled back dramatically, emphasizing her strong cheekbones.

Cheryl paced back and forth, looking annoyed. She was dressed in the skin-tight black dress I'd seen her in the other day in the lounge, and wore no robe. She seemed to be practicing fanning her feet outward with every pivot. It was something ballerinas did a lot and I noticed female standard ballroom dancers did as well when they were dipped. Flaring or fanning the foot out made your leg look so much longer and more shapely. It was just a trick but it did make the line look sexier. She also seemed to be enjoying the slit of her skirt. She spotted me looking at her and our eyes locked. I whiplashed my head back toward the dance floor.

Then I noticed Luna standing on the raised platform where several of the judges stood. She appeared to be having some kind of heated debate, first with the emcee, who obviously had his microphone off, and then with the tuxedoed older man beside him. She put her hands on her hips and pointed down toward the floor. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes big as golf balls. I'd never seen her look so angry. Not even when I accidentally tripped her. I wondered where Sasha was. I looked all around but didn't see him anywhere, yet all three of his pro/am partners were in the ballroom.

Jive, the last dance of the first amateur round, ended and the dancers left the floor and went to a back area. Luna followed them. There was some kind of drama at the raised area, and the emcee said we'd take a short break and would resume momentarily. He told us there would be a short period of social dancing and we were invited to take the floor.

"Let's start with a sexy foxtrot," he said.

On came a song I'd never, ever forget. "Fever." I gulped, thinking of the first time I saw Sasha. The first time he touched me. Suddenly the cold room turned warm. So warm I had to throw off my wrap.

"May I?" a voice startled me. It was familiar but not of the dark chocolate velvet variety.

I looked up and out of my reverie. Rajiv stood over me, holding his hand out to me. "Oh. Oh, yeah," I said, managing to stumble while simply getting up out of my chair. In ballet flats, no less. My heart was pounding. The blood was rushing straight to my lower abdomen, making me feel kind of like a hot mess down there. But Rajiv was being sweet. I couldn't say no. I smiled and rose. I wasn't as worried about a pool of liquid heat streaming down my legs once we got out on the floor. It was soon overly full of people who'd been watching from the sidelines, a good number of them from the Asian mambo champion's cheering squad. They should do this more often, I thought. Bystanders really wanted to be part of the action too, apparently.

Neither of us knew very much foxtrot, so we stayed with the basic box step and simple promenade walks. We were actually dancing pretty well together, managing not to step on toes, kick, or elbow each other, until, right as Peggy Lee called out "Fever!" I saw him. Standing next to Luna in the emcee's area. But he wasn't looking at the emcee. Or at Luna. He was looking at me. His penetrating eyes sent a shock straight through me, from my chest downward, ending in a tingling sensation right between my legs that brought the hot liquid to the fore all over again. He looked both gentlemanly and sexy, his black silky shirt opened just enough to reveal a slither of that mysterious tattoo that encompassed his back and snaked around his shoulders to the tops of his tight, solid pecs. His skin was perfectly bronzed. I couldn't look back to Rajiv. I was entranced. He kept looking at me and I kept looking at him. I could follow Rajiv blindly; he wasn't doing anything too difficult. So I just kept my eyes on Sasha.

It was like we were having some sort of conversation with our eyes. Who would look away first? He didn't avert his gaze but he blinked. Slowly. Several times, his lids became heavier and heavier each additional time he opened them. Talk about bedroom eyes. Then that deliciously devilish smile that always melted me slowly and surely began to form on his lips. I felt my knees weaken. As the song ended, he mouthed something to me I couldn't read, then winked. I stood stock-still, staring at him as I felt Rajiv tug me away. At the same time, Luna stomped off, pulling him with her and away from my gaze. A good thing, because his wink just made me tingle all over, and very weak in the knees. I couldn't remain standing there with Rajiv. I needed air. I thanked him for the dance and excused myself to go to the bathroom.

The restroom was chock-full of dancers changing, blotting excess tanning solution from their skin, putting on makeup, spraying their hair back until it was stiff as could be, checking themselves over and over again in the several full-length mirrors. I had to wade through this sea of women in various states of dress to find the stalls. I barely made it in time.

"Heyyyy!!" Samantha called out as I washed my hands.

"Yay!" I screamed, looking her up and down. She looked truly gorgeous. Her costume was fuchsia mesh with an opaque bikini underneath. Très sexy. The color looked fabulous on her.

"I'm SO happy you came!"

"Are you kidding? How could I miss this?"

"My studio's on the top left side, nearest the stage area. I have to get going to meet Maksim in the practice room but definitely come see me afterward. I want to introduce you to everyone!"

"Totally!"

When I returned to the ballroom, the semifinals of Kendra's competition were underway and I was thrilled to see she and Josie made it.

I searched the room for Sasha but he was nowhere to be found. Nor were any of his amateur partners.

The second round ended and I waited on pins and needles to see who would be recalled to the finals. I felt my bubble palpably burst when Kendra and Josie weren't. What a let-down. They were really good. Pepe went wild when his couple was recalled. I was happy for him. So, I cheered for them with him. He heard me cry out "Go, 149!" and winked at me.

"What a workout!" Kendra said, falling into the seat behind Mitsi.

"You guys did so well," both Mitsi and I said, weirdly, at once.

"Thanks, guys," she said, rolling her eyes and smiling weakly.

"You deserve to be up there now," I said.

"Nah, we're just thrilled we made the semis. Right, hon?" she said, play-slapping Josie. "Seriously, this is our first time doing this. We didn't expect to get that far."

But Josie really looked disappointed. She looked on the verge of tears, actually.

"And your costume totally rocks," I said turning to Josie. She whipped her head quickly away from me. I wondered what I'd said.

"Hey, it's okay, hon," Kendra said, putting her arm around Josie's back and whispering something in her ear. They slowly walked away.

What's going on? I wondered if Josie thought I'd meant it sarcastically. I would never do something like that. If I didn't like something, I'd say nothing at all. I strained my neck farther and saw that Kendra was now hugging Josie, who appeared to be crying. I started to get up, but Kendra saw me and held her hand toward me, shaking her head.

The winners were announced. Pepe's guys came in second and I thought he was going to rocket out of his chair when they were announced.

"Yes, yes, yes," he yelled, pumping his fist in the air.

After they received their medals and had their pictures taken by the slew of photographers--both pro and amateur fans--the couple walked over to Pepe's table. He hugged both of them, then gave a big long kiss on the lips to the blond guy. They walked to the door together, arms around each other. Aha, I was right.

The banquet table seats were completely full by the time the Latin pro/am began. The first heat of the A group--the youngest, aged twenty-one to thirty-five--included both Samantha and her teacher, a tall man with curly hair that gel couldn't contain very well who was all smiles, and Sasha and his Russian student, who was platinum blonde and beautiful, like all of them, with razor-sharp cheekbones and long, thin muscles. They began with cha-cha. The heat was so big it was hard to compare Sam and Sasha's student, but both were really good. I'd never seen Sasha's student dance. She was fast and sharp.

"Go 89!" I yelled, for Samantha. Suddenly I felt a lot of eyes on me. Like those of everyone at our three tables. Mitsi just smiled and puckered her lips, like I'd made a faux pas. Were you not allowed to cheer for someone from another studio?

"Go 64!" Luna shouted behind me, emphasis on the number, as if correcting me.

I didn't know Sasha's student at all. I seriously doubted they would be cheering for me if I were the one competing. Thankfully Samantha had plenty of cheers coming from her studio's tables.

Sasha of course was breathtaking, but I noticed he held back from dancing full-out himself in order to show off his student and prevent the judges from taking too much notice of him. Which made him a true gent, of course! During samba, their first traveling dance, they snaked right by our table. Everyone screamed, and Sasha's student flashed a wicked smile our way. As she did so, I felt the weight of Sasha's gaze. My eyes connected with his and my heart stopped. He had to stop doing that to me.

This was by far the most popular comp. There were a bazillion heats and my voice was so hoarse from cheering that by the end I could hardly speak.

At several points, Rajiv and Lilly walked outside to get fresh air. I couldn't seem to pry my behind from my seat. I didn't want to miss any of my friend, or of Sasha. I was just so mesmerized.

"The mall across the street is really nice," Rajiv said, returning. "There are a bunch of really nice restaurants. You're missing out."

I looked at him and opened my mouth to counter, telling him what he was missing, but he continued.

"Don't worry, though. I brought you a souvenir." He set a small piece of cheesecake in a plastic box in front of me.

Another thing I didn't ask for. What was I going to do with this one? Watching all the dancers, with their tiny bodies, made me all the more aware of the fact I was just sitting here all day, getting not an ounce of exercise. I didn't need to exacerbate what would surely be a weight gain by eating all day, especially such fattening foods. I smiled weakly and thanked him.

Samantha made the quarterfinals but didn't get farther than that. I was confused. I thought she was much better than some of the people who made the semis. I know she was my friend and all, but she seemed to be much more precise, fluid and graceful than others, and her routines were more original and exciting.

Sasha's Russian student made it all the way to the finals. I was glad she did. It must mean Sasha was a good teacher. She ended up placing third. Strangely, I didn't really notice the women who placed first and second. They hadn't stood out to me while they danced, while the women who placed fourth and fifth definitely did. What did I know, though? I was a newbie. Sasha politely shook hands with the champions and his student hugged each one of them, which seemed to be standard practice here.

"I thought Sasha's student was much better than the girls who came in first and second," I whispered to Mitsi.

"Oh no, this is huge for them," she countered. "This is only Sveta's third comp. And she's already placing third!"

"What does that have to do with it?" I asked.

She looked at me like I was off my nut. "The other girls have been competing much longer. Especially Tricia, the one who came in first. This is a super-crowded competition, Rory. They can't just give it to the newbie that soon. Even if she is Sasha's student."

I didn't understand. "But what does that have to do with it?" I repeated. "If someone else is better than you, why does it matter how long they've been competing?"

She laughed. "I think it's partly the judges' way of rewarding people who show up comp after comp, and are obviously trying so hard."

"And paying so much," Lilly added.

Mitsi rolled her eyes. "Now, now, don't be cynical. There are a lot of people out there. You can really get lost in the crowd. The more the judges see you, the more they kind of...you know, like you out of familiarity."

"That doesn't seem completely right," I said.

"No, but that doesn't mean it's not the way it is. Your friend hasn't been competing for long, right? I've never seen her before."

She seemed to know I was upset about Samantha as well. "This is her first."

"Well, see. And she made the quarterfinals, which shows how good she is. In about a dozen more comps, she'll probably be in the finals, assuming there's room."

"Assuming there's room?" I asked.

"The same people don't always go to every competition. So maybe at a smaller one, Tricia and Amanda--the second-place girl--and Sveta won't compete, so there's room at the top."

A dozen? That had to be expensive. Suddenly this conversation was making my stomach ache.

The emcee announced the second comp, which was the B division, bronze level. The students were slightly older. Sasha strutted out first, Cheryl's fingers wrapped delicately around his arm. He looked for a moment as if he were escorting her to a movie premiere. She held her head high, looking as if she owned the world. And with him attached to her, she did. I looked around for Mitchell, eyeing everyone at our tables. No trace of him. I practically jumped in my seat when I made eye contact with Luna, though.

Imitating Cheryl, Luna raised her chin and looked down her nose at me, then lowered her eyes and aimed them right at me. A smug smile slowly grew across her lips, as if she'd won some kind of game we were playing. She blinked dramatically, and when she opened her eyes again, they were now fixed on the dance floor. "Go Sasha! Go Cheryl!" she hollered.

Sasha walked Cheryl out to the center of the floor, but, unlike with his Russian student, he didn't take her near our table. She moved her hips seductively. I noticed when he whirled her around in a quick introductory spin, that the top of the back slit of her dress was very, very close to exposing the top of her butt crack. That's all I would be thinking about if I were in that dress. The cha-cha music began. She started a split second before he did and I could see he shot her a wide-eyed look. There weren't many competitors on the floor and it wasn't hard to keep my eye trained on them. She slowed and he started, gaining enough speed on her to lead her into a basic, then an underarm turn, then a move called a fan, where you cha-cha past the guy, and he whips you around and you do a fun twist with your hips. I loved that step.

I have to say Cheryl was just awful. Her hip movement was so superficial, not at all grounded. The way I'd been initially but twenty thousand times worse. At least. It was like she was just shaking her butt in everyone's face. It was a total amateur's shallow understanding of Latin hips. I knew, since I'd had the same problem. But I knew I was doing it wrongly from watching others doing it right, like brilliant Bronislava, and Xenia, and all the pros on my DVDs. The look on Cheryl's face indicated she thought she was perfect. Moreover, her toes weren't pointed at all, giving her weak, sloppy-looking legs, and she paid no attention to making pretty, graceful lines with her arms by extending her fingers. Her hands hung limply from her wrists. I felt so embarrassed for her, I almost couldn't look.

I looked around at the others. This being the bronze level, you could tell most of the competitors weren't tremendously experienced dancers, but most had either more practice or just natural dance ability. They had more controlled movement; their hips weren't swaying like they were doing some kind of hula dance. And they had an understanding of line and pointed their toes, carefully tracing them on the floor at the beginning of each step. Watching Cheryl in comparison made me glad no one had encouraged me to compete this early on. She wasn't ready, and I wasn't either.

And she didn't improve at all as the dances continued. I think rumba was her worst because it was the slowest and, therefore, showed her flaws most clearly. I could tell she was getting tired in the jive, the last dance. Her kicks were so uncontrolled, at one point the heel of her shoe, which was pointing upward instead of down, jammed into Sasha's toe. I could see him wince. She didn't seem to notice, though. Or else she pretended not to; just kept on smiling. Maybe hers was the proper way to react to a mistake; to overcome it and just keep on going. I would have apologized and stunted our momentum, making clear to the judges we'd screwed up.

There were no finalists because there were only seven contenders to begin with, making that comp short. Before they announced the winners, the silver and gold levels went.

Sasha returned to the floor during the B-level gold competition, now with Luna. There were equally few students in this competition. Again, Sasha avoided eye contact with our table, leading her to the upper corner near the emcee's station. She had her head raised to the sky the entire time.

"Davay, Sasha! Davay, Luna!" I heard Cheryl's voice behind me.

I'd heard Russians cheering on their teammates using that word. Sasha must have taught her some Russian.

Luna's costume looked very familiar. I suddenly realized it was the exact same costume Josie had been wearing, only in purple. The cut was identical. And it looked far better on Josie, who had more curves. Luna was super skinny, and her bones jutted out a bit. Something I'd never noticed before. Her chest was practically concave. Maybe that's what Josie had been upset about when I complimented her costume. Maybe Luna had been jealous and said something nasty to her. I looked in the direction where Kendra had been sitting. But both she and Josie had been gone for some time now.

The cha-cha began. Unlike Cheryl, Luna didn't start off-beat, and she definitely knew all the footwork. But she looked like a piece of spaghetti, like she had no bone or muscle. There was no grounding to speak of. And her posture and partnering were both off because she kept her chin raised so high. She didn't even seem to look at Sasha, to recognize they were dancing together. Plus, there was just something generally lacking. There was no pizzazz, no spark. She was competing with God's gift to dance and I didn't even want to watch them. Maybe she was still upset about whatever had happened with the emcee and wasn't bringing it. But she'd never impressed me in class either. She was just the woman who knew all the steps inside and out, without necessarily knowing how to make them rock.

Our tables were aflutter with people excitedly cheering her on. It was clear she'd been at the studio a long time and knew everyone. I couldn't join them. I felt like too much of a phony. But I also felt stupid just sitting there while everyone else applauded so wildly for the studio's star student.

The room had cleared out somewhat, this comp not being as popular as the A rounds. I spotted Samantha on the other side of the room, at her corner table, laughing with her pro partner. She didn't look too upset over placing in the quarterfinals. I excused myself and got up, bending way over and practically walking horizontally so as not to disturb anyone behind me. Cheryl harrumphed loudly at me anyway. Once I got to the back of the room, I lifted my spine and walked upright.

"Eee!" Samantha squealed on seeing me. "I made the quarterfinals!" She held out her arms widely to meet my embrace.

Good, I now knew she was pleased with her results. "I know, I know! Congratulations!"

"Sit, sit," she said, patting the chair behind her.

"I honestly thought you were so good. I'm so proud of you. You were so much better than people who placed in the semis and even the finals." I said, out of breath over the injustice.

"Really?"

"That's what we've all been telling to her," her partner said to me, with, unsurprising to me now, a Russian accent.

"Well thank you! You're a sweetie, Rore! It's my very first one so I'm thrilled! But also thrilled you actually thought I was better than some of those others! Anyway, this is Maks, my teacher."

"So nice to meet you," I said, shaking his hand.

"My pleasure. I have heard a great lot about you," he said with that same really charismatic toothy grin he'd worn all over the dance floor.

"Oh, good things I hope." I laughed at my cliché.

He didn't laugh with me. "That you are a ballerina and Sasha's new partner." He said this matter-of-factly, as if it were the truth.

I looked at Samantha, who raised her eyebrows.

"When will you begin dancing together?" Maks asked. His eyes widened as if the answer to this question was very important.

"Um, well, I just started lessons. And I wasn't really a ballerina. I mean, I never got to the point of doing it professionally." I was suddenly embarrassed. I was also a little leery of competing now that Mitsi had implied there were some strange politics involved.

"Rory! Just own it, girl! You rock!" Samantha laughed, shaking her head, before turning to Maks. "See I told you how self-effacing she is!"

I tried to laugh with them, but I found their attention a little confusing. I was nowhere near competition level. Maybe this was just Sam's way of being friendly and Maks was just going along with it, having fun with his student and her friend. I noticed Cheryl across the room glaring at me. She was now sitting in my seat. Mitsi waved nervously, kind of mock-clenching her teeth as if I were in trouble.

"I think I should get back to our table. We have a teammate on the floor and I feel like they think I'm being a traitor or something." I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, your studio's weird that way," Samantha said, laughing and returning my eye roll, making me wonder if Infectious Rhythm had a reputation. "It's okay. Let's totally meet after so we can talk about you-know-who!"

"Of course! Where?"

"Hmmm." She looked around, rubbing her chin. "It's gonna be so crowded in here. Let's meet at the Olive Garden across the street."

I didn't know exactly where that was but figured Rajiv and I could find it.

When I got to our table, Cheryl wouldn't budge. Rajiv mouthed "Sorry." I walked to the back wall and stood against it for support. When Sasha and Luna passed by our tables during their paso, Sasha looked right at Cheryl. For a second he looked a bit jarred, but he quickly turned his frown to a smile. His eyes seemed to dart around for a second before he and Luna turned the corner and danced across the floor.

As the rounds went on, my eye was drawn to two different women. One was Asian, around forty. She was tall and thin and looked great in her sexy, nude-colored dress covered with sparkly stones. She really had the hip movement down, and she could move fast without losing any precision. I loved how she worked her feet and ankles, always paying attention to the shape of the leg and other seemingly small details that added to the whole line. Her partner was a blond man who I assumed was Russian since everyone was yelling "Davay, Nikolai!" at him.

Another woman, probably around the same age, caught my eye as well. She wore a bronze bikini dress that revealed a rock-hard midriff that put me to shame. She was more muscular than the Asian woman and it gave her such a different look. But she moved equally well. Even with her musculature, she looked so light in his arms as he whipped her around him like a feather in those hot samba rolls I found so blasted hard to do. Her man was a large blond guy with an all-American look, though if I'm not mistaken someone yelled "Davay, Andrei!" to him. All the pros were Russian, it seemed. It made me sad that I wanted to watch the other two women and their partners instead of Sasha. Luna just didn't stand out and, to keep the attention on her, he wasn't dancing full-out himself.

Cheryl finally left my seat when the winners of her comp were announced. I dashed toward it before Luna could take it. I thought for sure Cheryl would be the first announced--the sixth place finisher. But the first three finalists--sixth, fifth, and fourth place--were all called and Cheryl remained, bouncing on her toes and hugging Sasha. All of the women were better than she was. I didn't understand. She ended up placing third. So, apparently you could do very well in your very first-ever competition, unlike what I'd been told. I eyed Mitsi, who raised her eyebrows at me like she was equally in disbelief.

Then the results of Luna's competition were announced. I didn't have to worry about fighting Cheryl for my seat because she stayed on the floor with Sasha and Luna. Never mind that the other medalists in her comp had taken their seats and the only ones on the floor at that point were those in Luna's division. With her left hand, Cheryl held Sasha's hand, swinging his arm enough so that others could see. With her right hand, she clutched her medal, which she held to her lips. Though I now knew it was strictly against studio policy for either of us to have an outside relationship with him, something told me the rules were relaxed for someone like her. Was that why Mitchell wasn't here? How could Sasha want her, though? He looked straight ahead toward the podium, his face emotionless. It was impossible to tell what was going on in his mind.

The first three placements were announced, leaving, unbelievably, Luna on the floor along with the Asian woman and the muscular redhead whom I'd liked. When the Asian woman was announced as the third place finisher, I nearly fell out of my chair. When the redhead was announced as having placed second, I seriously wanted to hurt someone. There was absolutely no way Luna outperformed either of those two women. In my mind she shouldn't even have placed in the finals. What was going on? The whole room cheered, though. For the first time all night, Luna flashed a wide smile. She turned away from Sasha and out toward the crowd, and, as if she were their beloved diva, she waved her entire arm--from shoulder to wrist--at them, all the while bestowing upon them a gracious smile. Sasha waved his right arm free of Cheryl's grip and escorted Luna to the podium. I looked at Mitsi for explanation but she kept her focus on the podium as if avoiding my gaze.

I was disgusted and confused. "I think I'm finally ready for a snack," I said to Rajiv.

He looked elated. I walked out of the ballroom, down the long hall and out through the glass doors, into the night air where I could finally breathe. I could hear him behind me running to keep up.

"Hey, are you okay? Do you not feel well?" he called out.

"Do you understand how that happened?" I sputtered, plopping down on a vacant bench.

"How what happened?"

"How Luna won!" I was shocked he didn't know what I meant.

He shrugged. "I guess the judges thought she was the best."

"Yeah but she wasn't. Clearly."

"Rory, calm down." Rajiv looked around.

I guess I was yelling. "Didn't you see that woman in the bronze costume? And that thin Asian woman?" I asked him, accusingly.

He shrugged again, shaking his head.

"How could you not remember them? They were so good!"

"Rory, what's the matter? I...yeah, okay, I remember them, I think. Yeah." He nodded, as if trying to convince himself.

Did he really watch the competition, I wondered. "How could she have won over them? She looked like a wet noodle. She's so ungrounded. Like me. Not even as good as I am now. How I was when I started. They were actually experienced."

"Rory, you're getting way too worked up. I know you don't like Luna but--"

"This isn't about her nasty personality. Do you honestly think she was better than everyone else out there, Raj? Honestly?"

He shook his head and shrugged again. "Not necessarily. But, I mean, she won the last competition so I'm not surprised. I mean...she's the star of our studio...and...our studio's important here."

"I can't believe this." I threw my hands up. "Did she win over those women at the last comp too?"

He thought about it a moment. "I don't remember, Rory. I...don't pay that much attention. I'm just here to have...fun." He spoke in a low tone as if he sensed it was going to set me off that he took this so un-seriously.

I took a breath. "I know, it's important to let loose with this and have fun. But Rajiv, from what I hear these competitions cost a lot of money, and there's money at stake, and, I mean, you expect it to be about who's really worked the hardest and is the best. Does Luna just win because she competes all the time and she and our studio are popular?"

"Rory, I don't know." Rajiv held his hands up, exasperated. "Don't you want to get something to eat?"

Suddenly I pieced it all together, saw how it must work. Sasha's popular with the judges, so his students generally did well, particularly the ones who competed a lot and paid to compete a lot and therefore brought a lot of money into the circuit. And the studio won money, Sasha got paid well, everyone's happy. That's why Sasha wanted more students competing. That's why he wanted me to compete.

I'm a cash cow. And not because I was necessarily any good. If Cheryl and Luna did so well, this clearly wasn't about who was actually the best dancer.

Well, it wasn't going to happen with me. I simply didn't have the money to put into the pot in the first place. I wasn't rich like Cheryl and Luna. But, more importantly, I didn't want to win something I didn't deserve.
Chapter 24

Rajiv and I sat in the lounge until it was time to enter the ballroom for the evening competitions. Rajiv drank beer, I drank a glass of seltzer water. And I let Rajiv convince me to have a small yogurt. Since I hadn't eaten a lot lately, it actually filled me up. Plus, now I was depressed about the competition and just wasn't hungry. The lounge was filled with dancers, both professional and students, but I didn't see Sasha anywhere. Or anyone else from our group.

"He's upstairs in his room, resting." I looked up to see Cheryl passing by with Luna and Sadie. Cheryl wore a smug smile and continued to clutch her medal. She smirked and shook her head. "She's so obsessed with him...God, it's so pathetically obvious," she said to Luna.

Not anymore, I thought to myself. Not now that I knew what he wanted from me.

Rajiv smirked and shook his head. "She really is not a very nice person."

The line to enter the ballroom for the evening competition wound all the way downstairs to the door leading outside the hotel. Since we bought our tickets at the last minute, we didn't have reserved seats. If we had to stand, I might be in my dorky ballet flats all night, I thought.

We got our hand stamped again--this time the right hand--then walked in to what was an absolute madhouse. They'd added more tables and several large risers, but it seemed all seats were taken, save the very last row.

"Wow, I can hardly see anything from up here," I said to Rajiv after we'd climbed all the way up. It sucked we wouldn't be able to cheer on Sasha and Arabelle with the rest of the studio, now that we were separated from the table. I had no idea how I'd find Kendra or Paulina or Mitsi in this crowd.

"Welcome to the evening session, ladies and gentlemen," the emcee said as soon as the room settled down a bit, his voice rich and smooth. It was the same guy as before but he appeared to have freshened up. His hair looked newly slicked back and his face was now shine-free. "We had a fun-filled day session and now we have the Professional Latin and Standard Championships tonight--the most popular event. But before that gets underway, we have a very special event. As you all know, since last year's competition, we've lost a dear friend, and a longtime champion in the Cabaret event, Willem Boxton." The crowd suddenly became shock silent. I tried to remember where I'd heard that name. "We're now going to bring you a short film of several of his most famous dances with his beautiful wife, Arabelle."

Oh yes, her husband, who died in the car accident.

The room went dark as the stage lights dimmed. A screen mechanically lowered above the emcee's podium. The audience remained silent. The film was really beautiful. It showed clips of Willem and Arabelle performing show-dance numbers. They were truly lovely together, their dancing very theatrical and stunning, with lots of gorgeously executed ballet-like lifts. Her leg lines in the air were mouthwateringly beautiful. Their partnership had spanned nearly a decade, starting when they were teens. He was very all-American-looking with short brown wavy hair, big brown eyes that accented his boyish charm, and a generous dimpled smile that really lit up the room. It didn't take a genius to tell they were in love. You could tell how she trusted him in those crazy, death-defying lifts. And it wasn't hard to see why--he was quite muscular for a dancer. But you could also just tell from looking at them that he'd do anything to keep her from falling, even if it meant going down first and shielding her body from the hard floor with his. He was completely uninterested in how he looked out there. It was all about her. In ballet, I knew it wasn't easy to find a man like that. I'd assumed it was the same in ballroom.

In the final move of the last dance they showed, he scooped her up into a cradle lift and carried her away. You could see him gently kiss her right before they got into the shadows. I felt tears welling in my eyes just watching them and knowing how it ended for him. For her. How horrible.

The screen faded to black and the room was completely dark for several moments. You could hear people sniffling. Then the lights came on but on low, and Arabelle slowly walked out onstage, wearing black ballet slippers and a black costume that was basically a silk leotard with a short, translucent skirt. Plain compared to all the rhinestone-studded women but very elegant, very beatific, very ballet. A slow, soft rumba with only music, no lyrics, played and Arabelle performed a brief, beautiful dance on her own. Her willowy, feather-light body was a perfect instrument to express all that she had to say to her husband and partner, and to the audience: the love, the sorrow, the magic, the sublime elements of their relationship and what they brought to dance. In the last, most pathos-inducing section, she did arabesque after arabesque, magnificently extending her leg in back of her, holding her hands up high into the air. Then, she lowered her hands down in prayer and bent her torso down while lifting her back leg all the way up to the sky. She bourréed around on her toes, and fluttered her arms a bit as if she were lost, a lost swan. In the end, her turns and bourrées slowed and she bent her knees, eventually melting into the ground.

As the music ended and she slowly rose to take a bow, everyone in the auditorium stood. The applause was deafening. It was hard to see her with all the people standing, but I managed to peek between two large heads and see her face. She was taking deep breaths, swallowing hard, trying hard to keep her tears at bay. She took several long, appreciative bows then clasped her hands together, raising hands and head above, looking up to the heavens.

The room darkened again and when the lights came back on, the screen was raised and Arabelle was gone. The silence ended and chattering began.

"Ladies and gentlemen, how beautiful was that?" the emcee asked.

Again, people cheered, many rising again to their feet. After a couple of minutes, the applause died down and the emcee announced the standard comp would begin. He began by calling out the judges' names, one by one. Each female judge was dressed in a floor-length designer-looking couture gown. It was like the Academy Awards. The men all wore elegant tuxes, and all had their hair slicked regardless of length. Everything was so glamorous, so proper and formal.

The judges took their places around the perimeter of the ballroom floor and the house lights dimmed again, leaving only the spotlights above, shining down on the ballroom floor. The magic continued as the dapper gents in their long-tailed tuxes from nineteenth-century England and their bejeweled ladies in radiant full-length gowns came onto the floor as their numbers were called out. The ballroom was soon so crowded the dancers could hardly move. They kind of looked like mice from where we were. Still, I spotted Paulina's partner, Maurizio. Feeling like I knew him now, I clapped and called out his number, though I couldn't possibly be heard in the crowd. It was fun, anyway.

It almost seemed like watching a movie. But being so far away from the action didn't make me want to get up and dance any less. I kind of wiggled and squirmed in my seat, particularly to the jazzy quickstep music.

By the end of the first round of standard, the entire room was so packed, there was nowhere even to stand. People were in the aisles and entryways to the main lobby.

The emcee rose from his seat and asked the crowd to give the standard competitors a round of applause. Woots and hoots and hollers began in earnest. As did the "Davays." For real this time.

The emcee began announcing the judges for the Latin competition. I could hardly hear their names through the din.

"Go Daria," I heard. Then, "Davay, Daria."

"Davay, Katrina," said a woman's voice, coming from the other direction, unconnected to the man before.

"Davay, Sergey. Davay, Sergey and Katya!"

"Davay, Pasha! Davay, Oxana!"

It was like the room was on fire. I couldn't hear anything the emcee was saying anymore. And he had the microphone.

A group of Latin dancers took the floor. It was more packed than even the standard. I looked and looked but couldn't find Sasha and Arabelle. Or Bronislava. Or Xenia. The music began and the dancers began moving so fast, the floor became a dizzying blur of candy apple reds, neon yellows, electric blues, night-creaturely blacks, and glittery golden hues. The movement was electrifying. Every single person on the floor was just about the best Latin dancer I'd ever seen. This was so different from the pro/am rounds. I'd completely forgotten my former disgust at the pro/am results. I was on fire, along with the rest of the room.

The second heat was announced, and, again, I began looking either for his beautiful face or the number on his back, which I knew from the booklet would be 327.

"Do you see him?" I asked Rajiv.

Suddenly the crowd on the east side of the room roared, and I mean roared.

"Sashaaaaaaaa!" The screams echoed around the room.

"I think he might be on that side of the room," Rajiv said, completely without irony.

There was no one behind me. I stood up, rose to my tiptoes. It was so hard to see. Then the music began and the insane, lightening-speed movement began. I wished I had brought my binoculars.

"Sashaaaa," people--literally hundreds of them, from the sound of it--screamed.

I stood as high on my toes as possible. And then I spotted his beautiful, radiant face right in the eastern corner of the room. He flew to the center of the floor with Arabelle on his arm. She looked gorgeous, her tone completely changed from before. She wore a gold costume with a top that looked strapless but really had very light mesh covering her shoulders. The skirt flared out a bit like a tutu. The costumer had wisely accented her ballerina-ish body. She looked tall and thin and sleek and I wanted so badly to be her, I felt sick.

"Go Arabelle! Beautiful Arabelle, bella Arabelle!" a woman sang, off to my side.

The dance ended faster than it began. I was so sad to see them leave the floor. "Aw, oooh," people moaned, perfectly echoing my thoughts.

At the beginning of the next heat, the roaring began on the other side of the floor.

"Who is it now?" I asked Rajiv.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say...Xenia," he said, for once being funny.

"Xenia, davay, Xenia!" I suddenly heard, then heard it repeated over and over and over again.

I rolled my eyes and smiled at Rajiv.

"Hey, we're learning this world together," he said.

The same roaring followed her and her tall, large-boned partner with long, sandy blond hair. It was the same man who was dancing with the very good red-haired amateur earlier. He looked like quite a character judging by his facial expressions, which ranged from wide eyes and a wowed, O-shaped mouth to flirty raised eyebrows and a bright smile to a thrown-back head with sizzling laughter. He looked like the kind of guy who'd be really fun, who'd make you lose all your inhibitions. He was nothing dance-wise compared to Sasha, though--his movements were a bit more clunky and he lacked the speed and agility. But he did look like a blast. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness and to smaller figures, I was able to focus more clearly on Xenia. She looked fierce, like an attack cat, but she also looked more at ease than she'd ever been with Sasha in the studio.

In the next heat, the roars came from the north side of the room. I squinted and tried to focus there. It didn't take me long to make out Bronislava's spindly fingers laden in velvety-looking black gloves. I'd had those fingers pointed at me enough times to recognize them! As the music began, her partner whipped her around this way and that, back and forth, from side to side. She was wearing a super-tight black bodice, and it looked a little S&M-like from where I was standing. Her partner was the blond guy, Nikolai, who'd danced with the Asian woman in the pro/ams. He looked so cute and innocent, making them a pretty funny contrast.

It seemed that each heat began with roars from some part of the floor. You could soon tell who all the top dancers were. But the roars were definitely loudest for Sasha. When he came on the floor, he was like a rock star. He strutted, he smiled at people, he mouthed "thank you," he waved and blew kisses. Arabelle smiled but she looked nervous. During their traveling dances, samba and paso doble, the roars followed them as they circled the floor. People seated at the banquet tables soon began to do waves of applause, standing as they passed, like in football games. It was nuts. He had so many fans, so many people who idolized him. I knew from Sam he had devoted fans, but I hadn't known the extent of it until now.

Just like on the videos, he was by far the most visible person on the floor. He captivated you and would not release you. Not just because of his glowing face but because his movement was so much bigger than everyone else's. It was so much more pronounced. His hips moved faster and more broadly, his pelvis contracted and expanded more swiftly, his upper body shaping was deliciously full, his back arching so in paso doble he nearly touched the ground. His jive jumps and paso doble tour jeté jumps were far, far higher than anyone else's. His hands and feet sliced the air. He had a fire in him, a boundless energy that looked like it was ready to explode in a split second. He reminded me of the ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev.

But, beautiful though she was, Arabelle just didn't have that same animal passion, that same fire he possessed. He was far and away the best, most technically perfect, most theatrical, most impassioned, most spellbinding dancer out there. But she didn't equal him. Not even close. I tried to focus on Xenia, Bronislava, and Arabelle, comparing them all to see which would be the best fit for Sasha. They were all such very different dancers, but were all on just about the same level, which was nowhere near his. Yet their partners, who were very different from each other, technically were on their level. I knew Sasha would easily take the top medal if he were dancing alone. But with Arabelle I wasn't so sure.

The night went on for so long. And I remained glued to that space on the risers. I didn't even leave to go to the bathroom for fear Rajiv wouldn't be able to save my seat and I wouldn't be able to get back inside. I kept thinking the room would clear out as the night wore on but it only got worse, with many, it seemed, showing up only to see the semis and finals.

I was equally smitten with the ballroom competition. The roars were pretty evenly divided between three couples, one of which was led by Paulina's partner, Maurizio. I could now more easily tell they were technically the best. Their martini-glass shaping was more elegant, fuller and rounder than the rest. Mitsi was right--you could see standard much better from above. I couldn't wait for Blackpool.

Toward the end, I could tell the dancers were getting tired. It was one in the morning when the finals finally wound around. They'd been out there for about seven hours. Sasha lost no steam. But Arabelle did. There were now only six couples on the floor and I could see his annoyance--bordering on anger--at her clearly in his eyes. Her beautiful, long-limbed body began to look thin and frail and it looked like he was pushing and pulling her around. She looked worn down by him. I felt a combination of jealousy and pity toward her.

The ballroom winners were announced. Maurizio and Lauren, his pro partner, were the winners. I cheered loudly, once again with my hands in the air, just as much for Paulina as for him. Very cool that Paulina was pro/am partners with the standard champ!

It seemed the whole room was on pins and needles when the emcee finally got around to announcing the Latin results. They took a damn long time too, playing several social dances while they figured it out. Clearly, the judges were having problems deciding.

The bottom three were called, leaving standing Bronislava and Xenia and their partners, and Sasha and Arabelle. You could definitely cut the air with a knife with those three left. There was dead silence as the emcee pronounced Bronislava and her partner third place finishers. People cheered but you could also hear deep breaths. Sasha and Xenia had been first here last year so it was no surprise they'd place first and second with new partners. The surprise would be the ordering. I could hear my heartbeat echoing in my eardrum I was so nervous. It seemed most were cheering for Sasha, but Xenia clearly had her supporters.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the emcee said slowly, elongating his words, making me want to jump on him and shake it out of him. "We very nearly had a tie. There was a simple one quarter of a point difference between these two couples."

I looked at Sasha. I could tell he was fuming as he paced back and forth, not even touching Arabelle. His cheeks were bright red, his brow furrowed deeply. His jaw and fists were both clenched, making me honestly hope he didn't punch someone out.

"Tying with the first-place couple in cha-cha, rumba, samba, and paso doble, and ladies and gentlemen, placing second by one quarter of a point in jive, the second-place winners are..."--there was no drumroll but a very horrendously long silence--"...from Los Angeles, Peter Smekalov and Xenia Lupinski." As it dawned on people that Sasha and Arabelle won, the room erupted in applause, screams, and roars.

I watched as the dancers all took the podium, Sasha and Arabelle receiving their medals last and standing on the platform's top level. Sasha grinned for the camera but his smile wasn't at all genuine. Arabelle looked like she was on the verge of tears. In fact, it looked like her mascara had already begun a short course down her cheeks. Xenia, on the other hand, looked all triumphant. Her face indicated that she'd really won the top award. Maybe just getting so close to Sasha was a triumph in itself.

Afterward, Rajiv and I made our long, winding way through the throng to our meeting place with Samantha.

"Oh my gosh, can you believe it?" she screamed, hugging me for dear life as if we'd been through a plane crash together and had just slid down the escape chute to safety. When I shot her a confused look, she clarified. "I mean, this is pretty small beans. He always wins this comp with no trouble at all! I can't believe Xenia came so close! And did you see him pushing her around? Arabelle, I mean? She was crying at one point! I'm surprised the judges even placed them in first. Honestly. After that?" She shook her head in disbelief, confirming everything I'd suspected about how he'd felt toward Arabelle.

"Oh, wow. We were in the nosebleeds so I couldn't see very much. Really? He was pushing--oh, this is Rajiv," I said, extending my hand toward him. My manners were beyond lost in our hysteria.

"Oh, hello there," Sam said, lightening up a little. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little worked up."

"Understandable. Rory's been the same all day," Rajiv said with a laugh.

"I only saw at the end that she seemed to lose speed. Was he pushing her the whole way through?" I blabbered, ignoring Rajiv's little attempt at humor. I was far too nosy and in need of information.

"Oh my gosh, yes," Samantha said. "It was actually pretty upsetting. I'm kind of freaked out by it. I mean, I don't know. He's...he's a god of dance, an athlete of God and all that, truly, but I mean, she just lost her husband and she's so fragile right now, and the way he treated her. I just...well, it makes me like him less, Rory. I hate to say that but it does."

I couldn't defend him. More, the disgust and shock on Samantha's face brought back my feelings toward him after the pro/am results. I was going to have to have it out with him at my next private.
Chapter 25

Contradictory feelings toward the studio, and ballroom in general, flooded my mind throughout the workday Monday. I was saddened by Arabelle's loss, both depressed about and somewhat frightened of Sasha's temper and treatment of her given that loss and given that they were a new partnership, and disturbed all over again by those unfair pro/am results. But I nevertheless found myself so excited for my classes that evening, just to get out there and dance, and to practice in the room near Sasha. Angry and annoyed as I was at that man, I just couldn't stay away from him.

The Warren trial now over, work had returned to brain-atrophying boredom uncontained. Gunther had no work for me, so the wills and trusts partner gave me some very basic wills to draft. Nothing was more boring than simply filling in boilerplate. I was only able to get through the day by practicing my rumba basic in my mind, and fantasizing about Sasha and what it would be like to be Arabelle and compete with him myself. I wondered how the other lawyers managed to get through their days without a hobby that filled them with passion so.

The studio was actually pretty quiet. I think everyone was still recovering from the weekend because classes were fairly empty. There were no Kendra and Josie, no Paulina, no Sadie, none of Sasha's Russian groupies, thankfully no Luna and Cheryl. George and the whispering cha-cha guy were the only men in Bronislava's rumba, my first new class of the month, so I and the dozen other women there mostly danced by ourselves. It actually worked out well. I was far better able to practice my rumba basic. I closely watched Bronislava as I danced. It always helped to try to imitate a master as you moved, I was realizing more and more.

Either Bronislava was pooped from the weekend or I had actually made progress, because after dancing with me she only raised her eyebrows in disbelief and said, "Good, Swan Girl."

Sadly, Sasha and Arabelle were nowhere to be found. The practice room was nearly empty. That competition really wore everyone out. I decided to rent space myself to practice. It felt nice not to have any perfect bodies or stunning dancers to compare my form to, or to have to be prepared for angry run-ins with Cheryl and Luna. I had a very good practice, and was, amazingly, not completely disgusted with the way I was moving, for once. I wasn't sure what was different all of a sudden. Maybe if you danced every single day, and had the movement in your head continuously, one day it just happened. It clicked and you got it. That's the way I felt.

Kendra wasn't in the studio on Tuesday either, and I was getting worried about her, especially given how upset Josie was on Saturday. We'd never exchanged numbers, so I left a message for her at the front desk, asking her to call me.

"You're so sweet to care about us!" she sang out when she called me Wednesday afternoon.

"Of course I care! Josie seemed really upset. And then you miss the first few days of the new class schedule. You're never absent."

She laughed lightly. "Yeah, well, we decided to take a little break."

"A little break? Not for the whole month?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

"Kendra? Why?" Funny, I thought, remembering back to how much she'd annoyed me the first time I met her. She'd really grown on me. I'd miss her for the month. Badly.

She didn't say anything. I heard her breathing deeply. Something was up.

"Okay, what's really going on? Tell me," I insisted.

"Ugh, it's really stupid, Rory," she said finally. "Aren't you at work?"

"Yeah but..." I looked down at my desk. I had a pile of boring wills that would take a few hours tops. But even if I had virtually no work, it probably didn't look good to be chatting on my cell phone in the middle of the day. I took my earbuds out of my desk and plugged them into the phone, placed the phone on my lap, and returned my gaze to the paperwork atop my desk. "I'm not doing much. Go ahead," I said.

"Josie and I kind of got banned from competing."

"What?"

"Not all competitions, but the ones run by Sanderson Fielding."

"Who's that?" I asked.

"The head honcho who runs the one in O.C. and a couple others. Like ones in Vegas and Miami. Fun ones but not important ones, like Nationals. So, it's not a huge deal, unless our reputation spreads, of course--"

"Wait, what? Slow down and tell me everything. How could you possibly get banned?"

At that moment Gunther passed by my office. I was excited and talking loudly. He locked eyes with me before looking at the paperwork on my desk, then eyeing my lap where my phone was sitting, and looking into my eyes again. Then he blinked hard, as if in disbelief I was on a private call, and continued on down the hall. Oh, you've got to be kidding, I thought. I was never on the phone.

"I'm going to have to go soon, but just give me the gist of it," I said. I needed to hear this now.

"Basically, Luna freaked when she saw Josie's costume, which was really similar to hers."

"I remember. Josie looked way the hell better in hers."

"Yeah, well, that was the problem. Luna went to the head judge and accused Josie of trying to sabotage her."

"What?" I couldn't help but laugh.

"She said Josie saw her trying her costume on in the fitting room weeks ago and so knew the design and went and had one copied."

"Luna's on something. I've seen really similar costumes and I'm new at this! And even if she did just that--sabotage?"

"Yeah, Luna's nuts all right, but, I mean, she's an important person at these competitions. She enters practically all the comps, pays loads of entrance fees. Her husband is a big contributor. We're nobodies. It was our first time competing."

"But I just don't understand the accusation," I protested.

"Apparently there's just kind of an unspoken rule that you're not supposed to copy a competitor's costume. It's...uncouth and unethical and lacking in the spirit of fair competition, or something like that, the judge said."

"That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard."

"Well, I know that's how some of the pros feel about a competitor copying their costume. It's akin to copying their choreography. It's part of their professional package and it's like stealing their brand or something. And fine for the pros, but I never knew it applied to students too. And I don't think it does. I think it just applies to Luna."

"That's just so wrong. So wrong that it should be legally actionable, you know."

"Oh Rory, you're such a lawyer." Kendra laughed.

"Wrong is wrong. Maybe I have an inflated sense of justice," I said, feeling defensive.

"No, no, I mean, you're sweet," she said. "It's just that I don't think you can fight this battle with briefs. Luna is a really important person around here. But there are plenty of other prestigious competitions Josie and I can compete in. We're happy to take our money elsewhere."

Gunther walked by my office again, again eyeing me.

"Ugh, I have to go."

"I know, I know, you're at work!"

"I'm going to miss you so much." I felt a lump at the base of my throat. "Keep in touch with me, okay?"

"I promise."

One thing was for sure. I definitely had no desire to do a pro/am competition. Ever. Sasha would need to be disabused of that notion immediately.

***

The studio was back to normal by midweek, when all of Sasha's groupies returned for his bronze-level cha-cha. He was still covering for Xenia, who the studio hadn't yet replaced. Everyone showered Cheryl and Luna with praise for placing well in the comp. It was all so fake. I felt like throwing up.

"I guess Rory's not happy for us," Cheryl said loudly to Luna, and the two women burst into cackles.

Sasha came in without making eye contact with anyone, turned the music on, stood in front of the class, and, without a word, began dancing the basic. We took our places in front of the mirror and followed him. Cheryl stood so far in front of the class she was practically on level with him. She held her arms straight out to her sides, hyper-extended at the elbow, without any gracefulness whatsoever. She looked like a cha-cha-ing cross. She swung her hips side to side in an exaggerated manner. Her grounding was nil; she was nearly jumping with each step. She almost looked comical though I'm sure she thought she was dancing full-out. Her high placement in the comp had actually given her too much confidence and now she looked ridiculous.

My annoyance with Sasha grew, my mind somehow making the unfairness of the system and what had happened to Kendra and Josie into his fault, which of course it wasn't. At least not that I knew. I said nothing to him when I rotated to him. Nor did I make eye contact with him. I merely danced the best I could. He said nothing to me. Not even "good." The same way he'd treated me in his last group class.

***

I rented space in the practice room each night after class. I saw Sasha in the back room with his private students, but I didn't see him rehearse with Arabelle at all. I assumed they were just taking a post-competition break.

***

As I waited for my private lesson Saturday night, all I could hear was Cheryl's giggling emanating from the back room. It was like there was an echo. It sounded like she and Sasha were having a flipping orgy back there.

I completely ignored her when she finally emerged, continuing to focus wholly on my own reflection in the mirror as I practiced my rumba basic, not allowing myself even to see her figure in my periphery. As soon as I heard the door to the general practice room close, I turned to the back room. Sasha was standing at the door, holding it open for me. When my eyes caught his, he invited me in with a seductive raise of his brows. Of course I immediately felt weak-kneed. But no, I was not going to let his flirtatiousness steal my thunder. I took my time picking up my bags and sauntered casually toward him.

"How are you?" he said as I allowed my arm to clumsily bump his on my way in.

"Okay, I guess. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you."

Again, his polite, proper English made me want to swoon, or at least smile at him. But I didn't allow myself to do either.

"You sure you're okay?" he said.

I nodded.

"Well, did you like the competition?"

"No," I said.

"No? I saw you there. You looked like you were really enjoying yourself." He looked confused.

"I thought your student Sveta was really good," I snapped. "No, she IS really good. I know it. I can see it. It's obvious." I could recognize good technique and high-quality dancing and I wasn't going to doubt myself or pussyfoot around with him.

"Yes, she is?" he said, his inflection at the end of the statement indicating he didn't understand why I was yelling.

"She's your best student. And she should have placed better than...than...your other students."

His eyes widened. "Rory, they were all in different competitions. Sveta's co-competitors were a much tougher group. It was only her first time. She'll do better in future." He was leaving out words. He was getting anxious. He lifted his hands, palms up. "Are you really that upset about Sveta's results?"

Of course he was confused. I was making no sense. I took a breath, ready to try again. But then he said the wrong thing, and set me off big time.

"Oh, I think I see. Rory, it takes a while to get going in these competitions. You have to pay dues, so to speak. You and Sveta are both very talented. You will do well event--"

"No," I unintentionally shouted, startling him.

He took a full step back.

"That's where you're wrong," I continued. "I'm a low-level attorney working for a very small firm, not one of your Beverly Hills housewives. I don't have Cheryl or Luna's money."

He frowned and his mouth widened. Why did some people think all lawyers had seven-figure salaries? It was really annoying. Or maybe Russians thought all Americans had money, period. Or maybe it was because of where he'd met me; a prime place to attract women with money to come take lessons at your studio, with you. It was all becoming clear to me now. "I mean, of all the women at The Beverly Hilton that night, I was the absolute worst one for you to try to lure to your..."

His eyes grew bigger, darker. I was definitely getting to him, and it actually scared me. I didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't like I was scared he'd become physically dangerous; it was more like I knew I was hurting him and that was a very bad thing to do to this man. Something no one wanted to do. There was just something...dark, so close to the edge it was about to plunge off, and yet mad, crazy sexy.

"Even if I did have the money to enter a ridiculous number of competitions to pay my dues, so to speak," I forced myself to continue, "I have no interest whatsoever in ever winning just because I dance with you, the popular guy from the popular studio. I want to win because I'm genuinely the best. I want to earn it." My voice was getting louder and louder the more worked up I got. And I got more and more worked up the more I remembered the look on Luna's face when she was so ludicrously deemed first place winner, the way Cheryl acted after her absurdist placement, Josie trying so hard to hide her tears. The system just made me fuming mad.

I felt the heat of his anger. I couldn't even look in his face. I looked down at the floor.

Finally, he spoke. "What do you mean when you say my 'Beverly Hills housewives'?" His voice was deeper, grittier, than I'd ever heard it. And yet his voice wasn't raised. He wasn't yelling. He remained calm, or at least seemed to.

"You know, Cheryl, Luna. Your students who can't dance their way of out of a paper bag but who win all these competitions just because they dance with you, and bring the studio and...you..." I couldn't say the last word: money. I was basically calling him a kind of prostitute. Did I really want to do that? Did I really have any place making that allegation? I suddenly lost the power of my convictions.

"I see. And you think that I went to The Beverly Hilton the night I met you with the intention of making you into one of these wives?"

Now he'd made me sound completely presumptuous. I still couldn't look at him. His voice remained steady but I still felt his steam.

I took a breath, still not looking at him. "No. I don't know." My voice softened.

"No, you don't, Rory. You don't know anything."

I felt my face turn red. He was right. I didn't know anything about his intentions. Yet I still needed to make it clear I was not going to compete. "All I want to say is that I have no intention ever of..." Again, I lost my words. That's exactly what I'd wanted, to become a pro. "I don't have mon...I'm just not a cash cow. Like Cheryl. That's all. That's all I have to say," I finished, my voice squeaky as a mouse at the end. I sounded ridiculous.

Suddenly he walked toward me, gently pulled me into dance hold. "Thank you for letting me know. This is your time. We should spend it wisely."

I finally had the courage to look into his eyes. They were wide, dark, intensely serious, and very pensive. Yet I couldn't read any of the thoughts behind them. What went on in this man's brain was pure mystery to me.

He clicked on the iPod and rumba music began. He led me in a rumba basic. He made minor adjustments but said nothing. After several basics, he positioned me into a shadow hold, where he was behind me, like before, and led me in a series of rumba walks around the room. Same thing. He said nothing but, again, made minor corrections.

After we walked around the perimeter of the room a few times, he took me to the center, and began leading me in a series of steps that were new to me. Most of them I'd seen before--either at the competition we'd just been to or in the competition videos I'd watched. They were from more advanced syllabi and I'd never done them before but I had an idea of what he was leading me to do and how it was supposed to look from having watched the videos of him, ad nauseam by now. Still, I messed up a lot of the steps since I'd never physically done them before. Again, he made minor corrections, but said nothing to me the whole time. Perhaps this was what Kendra meant when she said not to worry, that he wasn't like Bronislava; he didn't care to correct his students. Did that mean since I'd just told him I had no interest in competing with him he wasn't going to put any effort into me?

It was the most bizarre lesson. We danced the whole time but exchanged no words except those at the beginning. Until the end. The second the clock struck nine, he dropped my hand, and took his arm from around my back.

"Time's up," he said, walking toward the door. He opened it, and held it while I gathered my things.

I felt his eyes on me, felt arrows pierce my skin as I quickly picked up my bags. My throat began to swell as I passed through the door under his arm. I began quickly walking away, not wanting to look back for fear I'd cry.

But he forced me to. "Rory," he called out.

I turned.

"It is probably better for you not to make assumptions about people you know nothing about. And an even better idea not to make accusations against them when you have none of the facts. I would hope you know that from being a lawyer." His nostrils were flaring and his lips were pursed. With a final narrowing of his dark blue eyes, he turned his back to me and walked away, letting the door slam shut.

***

I walked home in a stupor. He was the most brilliant dancer, the most brilliant artist I'd ever seen in my life and he'd reignited my long-dormant passion. There was so much he could teach me. And I'd quite possibly just ruined my relationship with him before it had even properly begun. But he had to know how I felt. What I saw at the competition made me question everything I knew about the ballroom scene, and even sickened me. I would never want to dance like, or be like Cheryl. I obviously didn't want to be used by Sasha or anyone else. If that's what was happening. His last words reverberated through my bones. Was I making wrong assumptions and false accusations against him? I hadn't meant to accuse him of anything. But I had. The way the system operated wasn't his fault. But he was still part of it.

***

I felt sick over Sasha every time I went into the studio the following week despite the fact that all of my old favorites had finally shown up: Paulina, Eduardo, Funny Whispering Cha-Cha Guy--whose name I finally found out was John--Pepe, and of course Rajiv. I avoided the practice room and began staying for the practice parties every night. Rajiv and Eduardo both saved dances for me. Dancing with Eduardo at the hustle party was a blast. We'd just do the basic, but Eduardo did them full-out with arms outstretched wide and far, so it felt like we were really flying around the floor. It was a better workout than Pilates. There was a Coffee Bean down the street and Rajiv and I began going there post-party to chat. I loved living nearby. I loved being able to sip my coffee and relax without having to worry about how long it was going to take me to get home. And every time I thought about my apartment, my fight--if it could even be called that--with Sasha came back. I missed him. Badly.

I didn't go to his Wednesday night class. I couldn't face him. And I didn't want to be anywhere in the presence of Cheryl or Luna. I stayed away from Bronislava's classes as well for the same reason. I knew I was hurting myself and cheating myself out of lessons I'd paid for but I couldn't help it. As Rajiv had said, this was supposed to be fun.

I tried to have fun. I tried hard. But the more I focused on the social classes, the more I realized it was impossible to practice proper technique with other students. Most time was spent practicing how to follow a bad lead, preventing yourself from getting your wrist twisted or toes stomped on, and fending off flirtatious behavior and requests for dates. I had no interest in anyone but Sasha, hard as I tried to forget him. If I really wanted to be like Bronislava and Xenia and Arabelle, I'd simply have to dance with him. Not that I wanted to compete, now that I knew about the politics. I didn't know what my goals were anymore. That depressed me too. I just knew I wanted to be as good as I could possibly be. The best. Okay, perfect. Just like with ballet. I just wanted to be a dancer.

After the practice party on Friday night, Rajiv and I went to Musso & Frank, an elegant Hollywood restaurant not far from the studio that had been frequented by Raymond Chandler in his day and was still popular among celebrities. We sat at the bar. While I was in the restroom Rajiv ordered us martinis and a plate of fettuccini alfredo. I nearly had a panic attack when I saw the enormous amount of food sitting at my place setting.

"What did you do, Rajiv?" His attempts at getting me to eat were becoming downright exhausting.

"I knew you'd freak." He laughed. "Come on, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford--silent film stars--used to eat this pasta. It was their dish. It's historical! Besides, I had them split the pasta so it's only a half portion apiece."

I rolled my eyes, and began twisting some noodles around my fork. "I'm not sure I'll be able to finish," I said, knowing I wouldn't.

"It's okay. It's on me."

Suddenly, I felt eyes on me. Sasha's. I hadn't felt that in a while. I jumped a little in my seat. I looked around. The place was packed.

"Looking for someone?" Rajiv asked.

"I don't know," I said.

He laughed and tried to follow my eyes as they darted around. "Who?"

"I don't know. I just feel--" And then, out of the corner of my eye I spotted black hair, dark, brooding eyes. He was in the back corner. I squinted. Yes, it was him. He was sitting at a booth with two older men. They looked a little like him, but gruffer, meaner-looking. I wondered who they were. They weren't dancers. The second our eyes connected, he looked away without so much as a glance back, as if he'd never seen me. A shiver plunged down my spine.

"No way," Rajiv said. "How'd you know he'd be here?"

"I didn't," I said.

"Then how'd you know to look all the way back there?" Rajiv had a bemused look on his face.

"I just felt him."

"You what? Rory, that's frickin' weird."

I know it is. It's seriously weird.

"Anyway," I said to Rajiv, trying hard to focus on what he'd been telling me. "So, you may go to Ibiza? That's awesome. I've heard it's the ultimate party place!"

Rajiv was just beginning to realize the perks of being a radiologist. There were apparently conventions on new technology and discoveries in the field all over the world. He could attend some of the ones in exciting places and get the plane fare and hotel for free and make a fun trip out of it. He and his friend and fellow radiologist, Carl, were going to Miami the week after next. And Carl had recently told him of another one in Ibiza over the summer.

"Yeah, I'm really thinking about it. Convention's on a Thursday and Friday, so we're going to stay through Sunday and come back on Monday."

I put the fork down. I was too nervous to eat with Mr. Dark and Brooding and Completely Ignoring Me Though He Definitely Saw Me and Made Me Look at Him sitting in the corner. I took a swig of my martini, and nearly spit it out. I wasn't used to a mouthful of gin.

"You okay there?" Rajiv asked.

"Mmm hmm." I nodded.

"Okay." He laughed and continued on about Spain.

But in my periphery, I saw Sasha rise, along with the two men he was with. They all began walking in our direction. My heart did a nosedive and lodged somewhere in my abdomen. Rajiv was chatting on and on animatedly and I couldn't hear a word he was saying. The two men Sasha was with walked on out the door, ahead of him. One was speaking in Russian. Sasha looked at the back of the man's head intently, as he passed me, pretending not to notice me. I turned to look directly at him. But he didn't turn around. He was avoiding my gaze. I was sick of this ridiculous pretense. And I was sick of the angst. I was going to nip it in the bud.

"Sasha," I shouted out spontaneously.

The two men had already gone out the door. But Sasha stopped, hesitated a moment, then turned to look at me, wide-eyed, possibly in disbelief that I'd just made a small scene. Or tried to. He smiled but it wasn't real; it looked forced, somewhat stunned. He nodded at me.

"I just wanted to introduce you to my friend, Rajiv. He's a big fan."

"Oh, hi," Rajiv said, offering his hand. I could tell he was embarrassed. "Congratulations on winning the championship," he said when Sasha shook it.

"Thank you. Thank you very much," Sasha said in that hyper-polite, debonair tone that always made me swoon. "I'll see you at the studio, Rory," he said to me, then quickly glanced over his shoulder, presumably to look for the two men outside.

"Yes, see you Saturday," I said, feeling like I'd interrupted something.

He waved to the men, indicating he was on his way, then turned back to me. When he did so, he now had that wicked smile that always made me feel liquid heat fill my nether regions. My heart pumped blood straight to my face as he kept his gaze on me while he walked backward toward the door, pupils growing more and more penetrating with each step.

"Hmmm, interesting," said Rajiv. "He has a very firm handshake. How do you not get sore dancing with him?" He rubbed his wrist.

I giggled, my tittering probably a little too laced with sex thoughts. But Rajiv didn't notice.

"Hey, you think those guys are Russian mafia?" he whispered, eyeing them as Sasha met up with them outside and they all walked away.

"What? No? Why would you think that?" I was shocked Rajiv would suggest such a thing.

"I dunno. They just look...sinister."

"Rajiv!"

He shrugged. "They just do. Sorry." He was serious.

***

I had no idea what kind of treatment to expect from this week's private. I was hoping things would just be back to normal, and Sasha would forget our fight. His final gaze at me on his way out of Musso & Frank seemed so indicate as much.

As always, I avoided Cheryl's eyes as she sauntered out of the back room. I had noticed though that her necklines seemed to get lower and lower.

I placed my bags on the back bench, and walked toward the center of the room. Without saying anything, Sasha gave me a weak smile, and extended his arms toward me, inviting me into closed hold. Hmmm, not very talkative tonight.

I walked into him. He clicked the iPod remote, a rumba began--"Take My Breath Away" by Jessica Simpson. We began dancing a basic. I felt tension span his body from head to foot. We did an underarm turn, an opening out, a fan, another underarm turn, all basic things. Like last time, he didn't correct me or say anything. After that song finished, he caressed my shoulder blade with his hand, then let me go. I stepped out of his embrace. I knew from the strain I'd felt through his fingers that it had been our goodbye dance.

He smiled at me weakly. "Rory, let me explain."

I stood back, folded my arms in front of me. I should have been ready for this, after what I'd said to him last time. But I wasn't.

"You made clear to me last time that you do not want to compete. And that is perfectly fine. Most ballroom dancing is not about competing. Ballroom dance should be primarily about fun. But I have so many other students who do wish to compete. And it's unfair to them for me to take up a valuable private lesson time on someone who is not serious."

"You mean, Cheryl," I snapped.

"What?"

"Cheryl's a serious student." I placed air quotes around the last two words. "You're going to go back to Cheryl, who was originally scheduled for this time?"

He exhaled loudly. "Rory, that's none of your business."

I blinked. Wow, he really was excluding me. Just like that. "That's okay. I understand. She's the one with the money. I'm just--"

"Stop making this about money," he yelled so loudly the glass window actually shook.

Wow. That was the first time I'd actually been the recipient of his shouting. I stepped back.

He shook his head. "I'm--" He seemed to be about to apologize, then stopped. "How many more lessons do you have with me?"

"After this one, just one," I said, now realizing I hadn't even thought about what I was going to do once the package was up in two weeks. I could charge another six hundred dollars to my credit card, but I hadn't yet paid off the original package. My credit card balance was going to get up there. I guess I'd just been resigned to crossing that bridge when I got to it. Now it appeared I never would.

He rubbed his hand through his thick wavy hair, and looked at the floor. "Okay, I want you to take your lesson next week with Bronislava." He looked back up at me, straight into my eyes. "She's available and very good. I want you to take your final lesson with her. Actually, your two finals. Tonight we will not count this as a lesson. So, I will tell the front desk you have two privates left and you have decided--we have decided together--that it is in your best interests to take them with Bronislava. Do not sign up for any more lessons with me. And do not sign up for my group classes either."

With that he grabbed his iPod and darted out the door. I watched as he walked through the general practice room and out the main door. He didn't look back.

I must have stood there a full ten minutes, completely dumbfounded. He wasn't coming back. So that's all I was to him, clearly. A cash cow. Another Luna, another Cheryl. If he couldn't get money out of me he wanted nothing to do with me. What a horrendous jerk, to put it mildly.

I walked back to my apartment in a daze. I couldn't believe it was over. Not that we'd had anything, I guess. But I was going somewhere. I was learning. I was getting decent at something I was kind of good at. All I had now was a job I had no passion for and didn't feel I was very good at, a boss who was frequently frustrated with me, a sister and ex who were angry with me, and an eating disorder that had once wreaked havoc on my life...and perhaps wasn't quite gone, if I was being honest with myself. I hated my life.

But no. I forced myself to take a breath. Come on, Rory, I told myself. There was still Pepe, still the team, and the studio. Rajiv, Samantha, Kendra, Paulina, the slew of new friends I'd made. Sasha hadn't forbidden me to dance at the studio in general. I don't think he had that power. Sasha wasn't everything, I told myself. But still, I couldn't help from crying myself to sleep that night.

***

Team mambo practice the following day helped me out of my blue funk a bit. We'd finished choreographing the first section with all the rapid footwork and crazy-fast hand movement and were now moving to our first set of tricks, which was called snake. After the last of our lightning-fast turns, we ladies were to slither down our man's front side, then slide between his legs, and end up seated in back of him, only for him to slide us back out front. It was a lot more challenging than it looked.

The entire hour we practiced no one got the whole thing completely right. Poor Pepe--I kept smacking into his crotch on the way through his legs.

"Hey, quit your teabagging, girl!" he joked.

Everyone burst out laughing, including Lilly and Roxy. I was the only one who had no idea what he was talking about. I pretended to laugh with everyone but it was pretty obvious I was clueless. Roxy had to take me aside and explain it--that it started out a gay thing, but had become mainstream. I was intrigued by how she knew.

Of course the more I thought about it, the more I did it. At first I thought it might be happening because I was too tall, but Lilly and Roxy were both taller than I was. And they weren't having the same problem with their partners. Until of course I mentioned that I thought it was my height. Then, everyone except Paulo and Judy were having the problem.

And of course none of us could stop laughing after that and get serious, especially when Betty White-esque Lilly shouted, "I'm a teabagger! I just can't help it!"

***

On the way home I went to the grocery store and bought a bottle of red wine and a pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk. Obviously I hadn't completely recovered from Sasha. The whole way home I tried hard to think about the fun I'd had in practice and the new trick we'd semi-learned. And nothing else. I was determined not to let my mind wander to him.

I unlocked my security gate and made my way through the courtyard, around the pool, and up the stairs to my front door. As I climbed the steps I felt him. I looked up. Sasha was sitting right in front of my door, watching me.

"I have a prrroposition for you," he said, standing and holding his arm out to me.

***

Sasha and Rory's story continues in Fever: A Ballroom Romance, Book Two. 
Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Julia Ganis, my brilliant editor, Robena Grant, my wonderfully gracious mentor from the Los Angeles chapter of Romance Writers of America, and my amazing friend and reader, Elizabeth Donatelli, who all were so generous with their time and whose advice and critiques were absolutely invaluable in making this a better book. For words of wisdom on early drafts and overall much needed emotional support, I would like to thank writers Laurie Ellen Horowitz, Katrin McNevin, Margeaux Klein, Kathy Fielding, Maxine Nunes, and Tara Tyson. Thank you to Kristine Marsh for help translating the Russian into English. This book began in Laurie Horowitz's Monday night fiction group at Beyond Baroque in Venice Beach, and I am extremely grateful to everyone in that class for their support, inspiration, and encouragement. 
About the Author

After working for many years as a criminal appeals attorney in New York, Tonya Plank now lives and writes in Southern California. A former amateur ballroom dancer, she wrote the dance blog, Swan Lake Samba Girl. Her first novel, Swallow, won several awards, including gold medals in the Independent Publisher and the Living Now Book Awards, and was a finalist in ForeWord's Book of the Year and the National Indie Excellence Awards.

When not writing, she enjoys taking road trips with her rescue dog, Sofia, devouring Mexican food and Cadillac margaritas, sweating to dance-based workouts, cuddling up with her cats and a good book, and of course seeing dance performances of any kind. Her favorite places in the world are Lincoln Center in New York City, the Pacific Coast Highway from Laguna Beach to San Francisco, and the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah.

To connect with her, please find her at www.tonyaplank.com where she tries to blog regularly. For information on her upcoming releases, sign up for her newsletter.
