Dance With Me (4 page)

Chapter Six

“Skirt too short,
la
,” were the first words out of her mother’s mouth when she saw her, waiting outside the Lincoln Center. Her father, used to his Singaporean wife’s bluntness, said nothing. He just smiled and kissed Sherry’s cheek. But her twenty-two-year-old brother, Randall, couldn’t resist.

“She better show off those legs while she can. Catch herself a rich husband. Time’s running out. A few more years and she’ll be sporting the Wong tree-trunks,” he said, winking at her.

“What tree-trunks?” her mother asked. She swatted at her son, but the smile on her face said it all. Randall could do no wrong. Unlike Sherry.

“Too bad she dropped out of med school,” she continued, not looking at her daughter. “Then she could have married the pool boy.” She was smiling, but her words were clipped and formal. Sherry seemed to bring out the BBC presenter in her mother, especially when the topic of marriage came up.

“What pool boy? What pool? You live on the Upper West side.” Sherry smoothed her hands over her dress. She had a few more in her wardrobe since the last time she had been to the ballet, but not many.

“Figure of speech,” she said, turning her black eyes on Sherry at last. “It means you could marry anyone.”

“This is the twenty-first century, Mom. How about no one?” She knew she was doing exactly what she shouldn’t—engaging. Damn Randall for bringing it up. She flashed him an evil look over her mother’s head.

“The way things are going in medicine these days, you were lucky to get out when you did,” her father said, coming to her rescue. “Between big pharma and Obamacare, we don’t know whether we’re coming or going. And a client will sue you for an infected hangnail if their lawyers think they can win.” He wrapped a protective arm around her.

“Not that the journalism scene is much better.” Sherry’s voice was so low that only her dad could hear her.

He gave her a comforting squeeze as he steered her through the crowds. Tourists, obvious in their colorful down coats, stood around awkwardly, while New York ballet-lovers from all strata of society clustered near the bar or herded their children through the lobby. Her eyes lit on a young couple. From the ‘burbs, she guessed from the way they were dressed, like they were going to church. The woman’s eyes were bright and eager. The man looked like he was waiting for minor surgery. She knew exactly how he felt. Why had she thought this was a good idea?
Right. Alexi.

“Keep your jacket,
ha
,” her mother said, inserting herself between Sherry and her father. “They don’t heat the theater. Trying to save money. Last month when we came to see
The Barber of Seville
, I almost froze to death.”

“Plus Mom’s too cheap to pay for the coat check,” Randall added, squeezing in beside her.

“What? I pay four, five dollars for someone to hold my jacket?” her mother said, linking an arm through each of her children’s. “And then I freeze? Only crazy Americans throw away money like this.”

“Ahem,” her father said, raising his bushy eyebrows.

“What?” her mother reached over to pinch his cheek. “You are not crazy. You married me, after all. There, those ones are our seats.”

As they settled into the row of black leather-upholstered seats, Sherry leaned forward to smile at her father, wishing he was beside her. Her mother was only momentarily distracted from her favorite topic of conversation.

“So how’d you get these comps?” Randall, sitting on her other side, asked.

Sherry looked over at her brother. His hair was parted and slicked to the side, and he was trying and failing to grow a beard. In his three-piece tweed suit with a v-neck tee under it, Randall was hipster personified, or at least wannabe hipster.

“Work,” she said. “I covered an interview for Kim. One of the principal dancers. Romeo, actually. I thought you’d all like to meet him after.” She tried to look nonchalant.

Her mother clutched Sherry’s forearm. Something in Sherry’s voice must have given her away. She scanned her daughter’s face, her eyes like truth-seeking lasers. Sherry held her breath.

“You’re eating too much red meat, maybe, drinking too much,
ha
? I can see it in your eyes. Too much yang. Not good for liver. Or making babies.”

Sherry rolled her eyes, pulling her arm from her mother’s grasp. “Geez, Mom. As if the husband business wasn’t bad enough.”

“A mother can’t worry about her daughter? One day, maybe, you will understand.” She stared straight ahead. “So cold in here. Now you are happy you have your coat. Especially with that skirt.”

Randall was sniggering beside her. Sherry elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

Fortunately, the lights began to dim. The scattered sounds of musicians tuning up in the orchestra pit stopped. A hush descended on the audience, and the curtain opened as the orchestra began to play.

The stage was full of dancers, many of them male. Sherry scanned them for Alexi, but it was hard to tell at first. They all had sweeps of thick hair, were all lean and muscular beneath their tights. But after a few moments of intense scrutiny, she realized he wasn’t there. Of course not. As she remembered from ninth-grade English, Romeo didn’t appear until the second scene. She relaxed into her seat, trying to ignore Randall’s whispered commentary.

“Those packages are obscene. Do you think they stuff tennis balls down there?”

“What are you? Twelve?” She glared at him, but a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

“Come on,” he said, leaning in. “Tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing.”

She shushed him. The stage was empty. The music had changed. It was the beginning of the second scene—Romeo’s entrance.

And there he was. Alexi.

Sherry’s pulse quickened. Everything narrowed to the music, the spotlight and him.

He was wearing a loose shirt, open at the neck to reveal a slice of sculpted chest, tattoos miraculously gone. Her gazed skimmed over his butt, thighs, and yes, that bulge, greedily. His body was unreal, like Michelangelo’s David made flesh, but somehow more perfect. Leaner. Longer. But it was what he did with it that was beyond belief.

He sailed across the stage, hovering in the air for an impossible length of time, the muscles in his legs taut and hard. Sherry knew there could be no wires holding him up, but surely no one could slice through the air like a blade at that height on their own. He seemed to defy gravity. Or perhaps it was more that he refused to be held to the constraints of the human body. As the music built in tempo, he executed a series of turns so rapid he blurred and finished in a deep lunge at the exact moment the music stopped. His hand extended to the audience, a bold smile on his face. He owned the stage.

There was a pause, as if the audience had collectively realized that they’d been holding their breath. They erupted into deafening applause. Alexi rose, the look in his eyes saying, “That’s right. I deserve this.” Then the spotlight shifted, and he was gone.

“Wow. The man can dance,” Randall said. He glanced over at her. “That your boy?”

“He’s not my boy.” Her voice was a harsh whisper.

“Ooh. Someone’s got a crush,” he teased.

She didn’t respond. Her mind was on Alexi. Randall was right, and not just about the crush. The man could dance. She tried to keep her thoughts from straying to what else he could do with that body, those hands, those lips.

During the scene where Romeo first met Juliet, she had to sit on her hands to keep from biting her nails. The way Alexi looked at Kat, the way he held her waist and ran the back of his hand down her cheek, it was too much. A stab of jealousy pierced her chest, followed by a shudder of desire. She wanted to feel that hand on her cheek and everywhere else.

She sat, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, captivated, through the rest of the first two acts, ducking quickly into the restroom during intermission, not wanting to break the spell. It was only after the curtain had fallen that she came back to herself.

As Alexi and Kat held hands and took their final bow, Sherry rose with the rest of the audience in a standing ovation. A strange feeling welled in her chest. Pride. As if he were hers to be proud of. It was ridiculous. She barely knew him, was just a fun sparring opponent to him. What did the bartender say? Something different.

Well, she thought grimly, folding her coat over her arm, this would show him. She could already imagine his shocked expression when she showed up backstage with her parents and brother in tow. That would scare him off and quick. She felt a pang of regret. She would never feel his lips against hers again. But she knew herself. She wasn’t a one-night girl, and there was no way she was going to open her heart to anyone, least of all a party-girl loving playboy. Not after Glenn.

A security guard stood at the entrance to the backstage area, blocking the door from the surprising number of young girls and a few not-so-young men holding bouquets, but when Sherry gave her name, he let them pass. She didn’t even have to break out her press pass.

“Now don’t be shocked,” she said over her shoulder as she led her family through the narrow hallways. “You may see some nudity. Body shame isn’t a concept dancers understand.”

“All right!” Randall said. “Naked ballerinas. That’s one fantasy I can cross off the bucket list.”

“Randall!” her mother hissed. Sherry glanced back at her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth a disapproving line. Her father smiled a lopsided grin and shrugged. She guessed he and Randall shared that particular bucket-list item.

Sure enough, sinewy girls in tights and half-open kimonos flung their arms around friends and parents, pulling them into their dressing rooms. Through an open door Sherry heard deep male voices and saw a tangle of flesh and nylon as the male corps stripped off their costumes.

“Alexi?” She peered into the jumble of men.

A blond in nothing but stage makeup and what appeared to be a nude jock strap leaned against the doorframe. He gave her the once over, crossing one leg over the other. “Alexi doesn’t mix with the plebs. He’s over there.” He nodded his head toward the door opposite.

“Thanks.” Sherry turned to go.

“Wait,” he said. He put a delicate hand on her arm. His gaze scanned her family. “You his girlfriend? Damn. I was so hoping he played for the other team.”

“Maybe you can turn him, Matt,” a voice called from inside the room. Laughter erupted.

Matt turned, giving Sherry and her family a view of his naked butt.

“You laugh, but give me the chance to suck his…” The door shut behind him.

“Well,” Sherry’s mother said. Her expression was beyond scandalized. “I’m glad you took violin.”

“Now I know what’s under those tights.” Randall nodded, solemnly. “Not that I needed to see firsthand.”

“They certainly are … relaxed.” Her father shrank against the wall as a girl rushed past, kimono fluttering.

Sherry knocked on the dressing room door, saying a silent prayer that Alexi was wearing something, anything. Well, anything more than a jockstrap.

The door opened. It was Alexi. Shirtless, but mercifully wearing cargo pants. He was wiping his torso with a cloth, his tattoos emerging from beneath a thick layer of body-paint.

“Sherry,” he said. The way he said her name sent a thrill through her body, like she was dessert and he had a wicked sweet tooth.

She took a deep breath, clenching her fingers into her palms. “Hi, Alexi. I—we,” she gestured to her family behind her, “just wanted to say thanks for the tickets. You, it, the show was amazing.”

He looked over her shoulder, the expression on his face changing from lust to surprise to … she wasn’t quite sure what. Delight?

“Please, come in.” He backed into the small room, sweeping his arm toward the bench in one corner and the stools in front of the mirror. “Sit down. I’m sorry for the mess.” He gestured to his chest. “And this mess. My dresser is out sick.”

“Not at all.” Sherry’s mother smiled and extended her hand, BBC presenter-posh again. “We’re just happy you’re wearing trousers. Wonderful performance. Victoria Wong-Wilson.”

“Hey, man. Randall.” He slapped Alexi’s hand in a bro-shake. “What she said. You were amaze. Killed it.”

Her father threw up his hands. “What more can I add to that? It’s an honor to meet you. Richard.” He grasped Alexi’s hand.

“No, the honor is mine. Dr. Wilson. Sherry has told me so much about you. I read about the work you’ve done with vascular surgery. Amazing.” Alexi put his hand to his chest and lowered his gaze.

“Oh, well,” Richard said, clearly pleased. “Just a bit of tinkering. I thought if we could apply the same rules we use for…”

“Great, Alexi,” Randall interrupted. “You hit the snooze button.”

Alexi laughed. “You will have to tell me about it over dinner. I’m so happy you could come, and on such short notice.” His eyes flicked to Sherry’s, amusement glittering in them. This was not the reaction she was expecting. “I have a table reserved at Carlito’s. I hope you will join us for dinner, also.”

“Sorry, bro.” Randall shook his head. “I’m meeting up with some friends in the Village. Gotta bounce.” He opened the door.