TONY RUNS ACROSS the stage at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, dousing young groupies with bottles of Jägermeister.

“Who wants a fucking shot?” he yells at the crowd of fifteen thousand screaming fans. The mob delivers their God a sacrifice and lifts a young girl on stage. Tony cocks back her head and floods her mouth with fluid. His eyes twinkle as he gazes at their sea of smiles. “I know y’all in the back ain’t got no booze, but you know what? I got a goddamn titty cam.” He hands the bottles to a guy in the front row, lifts his sagging pants up by the belt, and grabs a camera from a roadie. The fans go nuts. Girls in the front row lift up their shirts in unison as Tony broadcasts their breasts across the Jumbotron.

I ask the butler in my luxury box seat to fetch me another Lemon Drop. I’m going to need it.

The Dancing under the Stars cameraman, who is supposed to film some footage of me watching the Möxie Cörps concert, is distracted by the titty cam. I seize my chance. I sneak off to the buffet table and consider my options: spicy, fried, hot Buffalo wings, hot dogs, veggies and dip, fried crab and cream cheese wontons, teriyaki skewers, sandwiches, fruit, cookies and scones. I look back at the cameraman to make sure he is still focused on the girly show. Safe. I steal a single plump, spicy, fried, hot Buffalo wing, drench it in blue cheese dressing, and quickly devour it before the cameraman can catch me. I wrap the evidence of my crime in a cocktail napkin and I stuff it into my Chanel bag. Then I pile veggies and fruit with just a lemon wedge for flavoring onto my plate and return to my leather seat.

I lick my lips, still on fire from my clandestine wing. I’ll need to do an extra spin class tomorrow for my sin but it will be worth it. I focus back on the concert. Tony has stripped down to a black studded leather bikini bottom attached to suspenders and launched into his drum solo. Tony’s drum set—suspended from cables—is levitating above the stage.

My body tingles. I remember when I saw Möxie Cörps at the Moscow Music and Peace Festival. My mama and her new husband saved up for months to buy tickets to the show. We took a train from Odessa. There were one hundred twenty five thousand people, screaming, crying, so happy to be alive. It was the first time anyone in the Soviet Union had been to a western rock concert. I was only a little girl, but when Tony took the stage and his drum set flew over the audience, I knew he had what we all wanted. Freedom.

The butler interrupts my memory. “Ms. Brooks, here’s your drink.”

“Thank you.” I take a long sip. Tony finishes his drum solo.

“I fucking love you all,” he shouts. “I wanna give a big shout out to my gorgeous dance partner, Viktoria Brooks, who’s here tonight.” He points his drumstick my way. I get up from my recliner and walk over to the glass partition of the box hanging over the other stadium seats. The Jumbotron focuses on me and I wave.

“I’m crazy about this girl. Isn’t she smoking hot?” The pack howls. “So make sure you guys vote for us every Monday night.”

Eight songs and two encores later, I’m backstage with the cameraman positioned to get a shot of me embracing Tony.

Guitarist Devin “Dax” Thomas stumbles down the stairs. His face drowns in his lush blonde mane. “So you must be Tony’s sexy partner.” He leans into me and strokes my cheek. “You’ve put a spell on him, that’s sure. I haven’t seen him this sprung since his ex-wife.”

Tony runs off stage, still clad only in his bikini brief, gushing sweat. He sprints toward me like a coyote and scoops me up. “Did you like the show? I was so fucking nervous playing since I knew you were watching.”

I escape from his arms. His sweat has stained my brand new Valentino dress. I turn away from the camera and position my purse so his sweat marks won’t be broadcast on national television. “Antoshka, you were awesome. I saw you play in Russia twenty years ago and you were even better than I remember.”

Tony gives me a devilish smile. “No way! You were at the Moscow Music and Peace Festival?”

I purse my lips. I don’t want to give him the power of knowing I was in love with him for years. “Oh, da. My stepdad was huge fan and he dragged my mama and me along. Not my kind of music, but it was cool.”

“Zavetakis!” his fat, balding manager yells. “Stop talking to your girlfriend and get your ass to the meet and greet.”

“Zavetakis?” I ask.

He growls. “My real last name. It’s Greek. He made me shorten it when we got signed.” The manager comes toward us, scowling. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?” He goes in for a kiss.

I give him my cheek and smile for the camera. “Of course.”

* * *

I TIPTOE BACK into my house, trying not to wake up Benny. But it’s too late. My husband is waiting for me in the living room, drinking whiskey—straight up.

I kick off my Jimmy Choo’s and throw down my purse. “Allo Venya. Waiting up for me?” The scent of Cuban cigars overwhelms me.

Benny takes another sip. “I just missed you, luv. The only time I see you is on set.” I try to read him, but it’s tough. He can go blank at the drop of a hat. He reaches for my hand. “You hungry? Marina just mashed up a banana with some peanut butter for you.”

Ooh, lucky me. Cha-Cha comes over to me and licks my feet. I scoop her up and we cuddle next to Benny on our white leather couch. There’s a life-sized portrait of me hanging over the fireplace that Benny commissioned when we got married. “No, thanks. I’m so tired and I’ve got to kill myself at gym tomorrow. I ruined my diet tonight.”

He starts rubbing my feet. His face softens a little bit, finally. I guess we’re okay. “You’re working so hard,” he says. “I’m proud of the way you’re handling Salomé.” He raises his furry brow. “How’s Tony treating you?”

“Oh, he’s alright.” I look away from him and pet Cha-Cha. “He works real hard but he’s kind of dumb. Typical rock star. Tonight was just crazy though. His fans are obsessed.” I moan. Benny just gives the best foot rubs. I’m still so turned on from seeing Tony tonight. I push Cha-Cha off my lap and climb on top of Benny and give him a big kiss. “Venyochka, can we talk tomorrow?”

“No worries.” He kisses me again and gently rolls me off of his lap. “But remember, tomorrow we have the National Dance Council of America luncheon and I need you there.”

What? “But I promised Tony—”

He slams the rest of his drink. “No buts. It’s non-negotiable. You’ll attend.”

I jump off the sofa. “I can’t go.”

He gets up from the couch and points his stubby finger in my face. “You will go.”

This is bullshit. “Nyet. I won’t. Look, Venya, things have to change around here. I’m the star now. I can’t be seen at stupid dance council meeting.”

His face goes hard and he clutches me by the arms. “Now listen here, Viktoria Josephovna Brooks. The only reason you’re on this bloody show is me. I turned you into the dancer you are today. Not to mention that I support your grandmother. Luxury retirement homes aren’t cheap. Hundreds of young girls would kill to be in your place. I’m sure Diana would do anything to dance with Jared and be the U.S. Professional Latin Champion.”

I can’t believe this bastard brought my baba into this. That’s low, even for him. I try to squirm out of his clamps but I’m unsuccessful. Cha-Cha comes to my rescue and nips at Benny’s foot. “You wouldn’t dare,” I challenge. “Diana would never agree to do what I did. She’s Mormon, and engaged.”

He releases his hold on me and laughs. “Don’t be so sure, Lassie. Ambition makes people forget all their morals.” I stare at the hair protruding out of his ear. It’s like a goddamn peach. “Don’t embarrass me. You’ll come with me tomorrow. End of discussion.”

I scowl at him and rub my arms, trying to erase the red marks.

He forces a kiss on me. “I’ll be in bed. You better be upstairs in twenty minutes.” He turns and ascends up our circular staircase.

Fuck. Who does that bastard think he is? I can’t even fake that I’m sick tomorrow—he’d drag me out of bed. I see my Chanel bag vibrating, grab it, and probe for my iPhone. One new message.

Tony (Mobile): Hey babe. Sorry I couldn’t hang out after tonight’s show. You’ve got me wound up. I can’t think about anything else. We still on for tomorrow?

I can’t believe I have to go to that damn lunch. Why am I still married to Benny? I don’t need this anymore.

Vika (Mobile): I can’t meet you. I’ll call later. Sorry.

I rummage through my purse and fish out the remnants of that divine wing. I head to the kitchen to dispose of my indulgence. Cha-Cha trots by my side. Story of my life. Hiding things I love and pretending to love things that I need. Marina is hunched over the kitchen table, feigning to read a Russian Glamour. But I know she just heard our fight.

She shuts her magazine and stands up. “Hello, Vikochka. Do you want a banana?” she says in Russian.

I throw the crumpled napkin onto the sparkly black granite countertop. What a relief to talk to someone in my own language. “Nah, just throw this away for me.” She obediently opens the trash lid. She has bags under her eyes. “You look tired, Marishka. Maybe you should get some rest.”

Her chin drops. “Me? Don’t you worry about little old me.”

“Stop with old. You’re my age.” I lean against the counter and watch as Marishka squirts a few drops of honey onto my smashed banana. “Anything good in Glamour this month?” I turn the magazine and pull it closer for a better look, dislodging a handwritten list underneath it. “To Do” it says in Russian. It’s a long list. “Oh, did you send Baba the pashmina shawl?” Baba loves pashmina. And anything Baba loves, I get Baba. She worked to bleeding fingers for me to dance.

“Of course, Vika. Flowers, too. Hyacinths, chrysanthemums, and primroses, her favorites.”

I air kiss in Marina’s direction then pause and put my nose in the air, sniffing dramatically, feeling the faintest smile trying to creep onto my face. Onions and horseradish. “Did you make some of your lamb pelmeni tonight?”

Marina’s eyes get wide and she wipes her palms on her trousers. “Yes, but you know you can’t have any. Mr. Benny would be very angry. Not in the middle of the season.”

She looks scared. Sad thing is, she’s probably my best friend in the world. “Just a couple, Marinochka, please. I promise I won’t tell him. I’m starving.”

She nervously looks around. “Alright. Just a few,” she whispers. “But only because I think you’re too skinny.” She reluctantly heads to the stainless steel fridge. “I don’t know why you let Mr. Benny tell you what you can and can’t do. My husband loves me no matter what I eat.”

Marina has a point. Benny doesn’t even know who I am or what I want. He has made me into his fantasy ballroom Barbie.

The pelmeni smells like heaven warming up in the microwave. “Marisha,” I say, opening the silverware drawer. Shoot, this is a linen drawer. “Do me a favor, will you? Melt some butter over the top. Oh, and add a scoop of smetana to that. No, wait . . .” I find a serving spoon in the next drawer and hold it up like a trophy, “make that two scoops. This is a mighty big spoon.”