“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, put your hands together for C. Dolla and Salomé, who will be dancing a swing to the Ray Charles classic ‘Hit the Road Jack.’”

Dolla and I glide onto the stage. He looks so damn fine in his 1920s Harlem renaissance inspired digs. The man got into the creation of his costume, big time. He called all of his fashion gurus in to design the perfect authentic outfit: a black and red pinstriped double-breasted silk tuxedo studded with diamonds and rubies, a cardinal-tinted silk shirt, a black fedora with a scarlet feather, and tan shoes with squared off bulldog toes. Classic. And they hooked me up, too: a killer red plumed skirt with a black ruby bedazzled corset and a huge red-feathered headdress. H-O-T, baby. The audience goes wild when we begin to dance. Swing is one of my best dances, and for tonight I choreographed a very Lindy Hop-inspired routine. The two of us flick up our heels in unison and fly across the floor.

Dolla is divine. A total perfectionist. He wants to win and is pulling out all the stops. He’s even planned a huge Harlem Renaissance bash for tonight after the show, where he’ll recreate the scene at Harlem’s historic Savoy Ballroom.

We do my signature sugar push move, with Dolla tossing me away then yanking me back, and I know we’ve nailed this number. As we kick into our final pose, the music comes to a crashing end and applause explodes from the audience. Boo-yah, baby!

We head over to Matt, both of us breathing heavy. It’s pretty stupid trying to interview dancers in the seconds after a performance, but that’s DUTS so here we are, two panting dogs dressed to the nines.

“So, Dolla,” host Matt says, “you look quite dapper tonight. Audience, doesn’t he look dapper?”

“Come on people, show me some love!” Dolla shouts. They do, of course. Loudly. “Well, Matt, I gotta tell ya. This crowd is amazing. Yo, give it up for my girl Salomé! Yeah! Show some love. She is bangin’. Those moves are hot. I mean this dance is very special to me, very special to me, for real. In preparation for this dance, I studied about the richness and culture during the Harlem Renaissance, back in the 1920-30s. How us African-Americans had an integral part in creating the music and dancing of swing. In fact, in honor of what I have learned from this dance, I’m gonna create a special Harlem Renaissance-inspired line of clothing for my line, Jamal Trey Clothing.” Dolla pounds his fist over his heart. “I feel it, Matt. I feel it deep.”

“Dolla, that’s great. It’s wonderful that you’ve taken such an interest in the history of ballroom dance. Salomé, what do you think about Dolla’s new-found inspiration?”

“Well, I don’t know much about the history and stuff,” I mumble. “But Dolla’s the best. He’s so great and supportive to me and I love his outfit.” Yeah, that’ll go down in the history books as the best interview ever. I hate doing interviews. I just want to dance.

“Let’s see what the judges had to say. Benjamin Brooks?”

“Dolla, my good bastard, that was a beaut’. Love your duds. You got the style of the dance down,” Benny says.

“Karen Lopez,” Matt says.

“Dolla, you are a dream. You are so graceful and I can see your years of dance training. You gave such an authentic feel to the dance. I can really see that you made a strong effort to include some Lindy Hop moves into your swing but I really appreciate the fact that you still danced with traditional timing,” she says.

“Steve Samson,” Matt asks.

“Dolla, you’re like a rocket. Taking off fast and furious. It was superb,” Steve replies.

“After the break, the judges will reveal their scores,” says Matt.

Dolla and I head back stage. We await our scores surrounded by the other dancers. The judges give us three tens. Thank God, we’re the last dance of the night. Dolla and I plow through the after show press junket as fast as we can. I rush to my trailer to change. Jenny and Diana are already inside.

Jenny is leaning over my sink, scrubbing off her makeup. Water beads trickle down her forehead. “There you are. Can you please tell Lady Di over here that what she is wearing is underwear and not an actual dress?” Jenny grabs a towel and wipes off her face.

Diana is prancing around in a near see-through pink silk slip. “It is too a dress,” she whines. “It’s a Diane von Furstenberg. Vika let me borrow it.” She twirls around like a princess.

Apparently, Jenny and I aren’t as cool as Vika. Diana ditched us twice last week to attend store grand openings with Vika and Iza. I hate those stupid fashion events. They never have anything in my size. Does Beverly Hills even make anything in a size four?

Jenny whips the towel at Diana. “Oh, well if Vika wore it, it must be appropriate.”

Just one day of peace is all I ask. “Come on, guys. Jen, stop giving her such a hard time about everything. What do you want her to wear? Braids and a cotton ankle length dress?”

Jenny seethes and slips into a navy knee-length BCBG skirt.

“And Di, for God’s sake, please stop taking fashion advice from Vika. She was a stripper.” I back up to Diana and she unhinges me from my corset. Ahh, to breathe again. “You guys both did so much better tonight. Xavier is finding his groove and Tim even stood up straight.”

Jenny zips up her boots. “Yes, Tim’s improving rapidly. But I think overall he’s better at the Standard dances. The swing was okay because it’s kind of slow, but I’m going to need your help when we get to the paso.”

“Got your back, sista.” I throw on my favorite Bebe tiger print maxi dress and fasten my five-inch black stilettos. “This party is gonna be awesome. Dolla’s been talking about it for weeks. Come on. Let’s go.”

Dolla’s Escalade limousine is waiting outside to take us to the jamboree.

* * *

I swear to God, the man outdid himself this time. He hired celebrity event designer Preston Bailey to coordinate his “Savoy Ballroom Bash.” Preston rented out the ballroom of the Beverly Hills L’Hermitage hotel and booked the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra for a night of 1920’s era swing jazz music. It’s off the scale, this shindig. Party of the century, if not the millennium.

We enter through an elegant lobby, crowned by a majestic crystal chandelier, and climb two flights of marble steps. With each step, the sounds of the orchestra grow louder, and then we arrive and the doors burst open. It’s even better than I imagined—the raised bandstand filled with gleaming instruments, the pulsating music, and the bubbly performers set against vibrant orange and blue decor. And the dance floor—God! I’ve never seen anything like it. Burnished maple, accented by a shiny brass rail tracing its perimeter. There are round tables and a soda fountain dispensing tall mugs of root-de-toot root beer and ginger ale for a nickel each. It’s gorgeous here. I think I’ve died and landed on the set of Harlem Nights. I love it.

Dolla takes the stage as me and my posse move through the crowd.

“Welcome, everybody, to the new Savoy Ballroom,” he says into a mic. “I have created this evening in appreciation for the jazz legends who inspired me: Louis Armstrong, Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington, Fess Williams, King Oliver, and Chick Webb. Ladies and gentlemen, the music never stops at the Savoy Ballroom.” He waves his arm broadly to the left. The spotlight follows, picking up Uther emerging from the wings.

Christ, can this night get any better?

On stage, R&B singer Uther, wearing a yellow zoot suit, belts out Cab Calloway’s song, “She’s Tall, She’s Tan, and She’s Terrific.” We walk up to the bar and I order a peach brandy and some fried chicken and barbequed spare ribs.

“Hey, Sal,” I hear Genya say.

I turn to face him. He is also costumed in head to toe 1920’s garb—and looking way sexy in the midnight blue double-breasted tuxedo. Diana jabs me in the ribs with her elbow, making me damn near spit peach brandy at him. My girl needs some serious lessons in subtlety.

“Hey, Dimka,” I say, stepping to the other side of him—away from Diana. “I’m sorry you got low scores tonight.”

He blows it off with a wave of his hand. “I don’t care about that stupid show, Sal. I won first season with that soap star. Winning sucks because you have to do all these lame interviews.” He orders some corn whiskey. “You wanna dance, Sal, for old time’s sake?”

Diana gives me a huge grin, mouths “he totally loves you,” and leads Jenny away from the bar. I scan the room. “What, and have your fiancée sneak up behind me and slash my Achilles tendons?”

“Iza’s not here.” He takes a deep breath and downs his whiskey. He licks a drop from his lips—the lips that kissed me just two weeks ago. “She had migraine so she stayed at home tonight.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, fine. I’ll be your second choice.” I hold up my plate. “But let me finish my food? I’m starving.”

Genya laughs.

I take a big ol’ bite of the chicken and a nibble of the sparerib and—oh shit. Gabriel just spotted me stuffing my face. I toss my plate behind a large plant and grab Genya’s hand. “No time like the present.”

Gabriel is still pushing through the crowd when Genya whisks me away to safety.

He leads me to the packed floor. Uther is singing Louis Armstrong’s “Mack the Knife.” I dig into my purse and pop a Mento into my mouth before tossing my bag onto a nearby table. Then I wrap myself in Genya’s arms. Ummmm. I can’t believe it’s been six years without these arms.

He squeezes me tight. “Do you remember time in Croatia at Junior Worlds when we ditched our sponsor and spent entire night playing quarters with that Icelandic guy Ingibjörg?”

“Totally. That was the first night I got wasted. And we still won the next day.” I rest my head on his shoulder.

His hands lower on my hips and he sways me into him. “Salomé. You’ve never been my second choice.” He pulls my chin up with his thumb and forces me to look at him. “You left me, remember?”

Oh, no, let’s not do this . . . It’s all I can do not to pull away and end the dance. I so don’t want to go there with him, not about this. Things were just getting good between us! I couldn’t say no to Ricardo and he knows it. Ricardo was the world professional Latin Champion, for Christ’s sake, and I was a lowly youth amateur champ—of course I said yes when he asked me to be his partner. Genya was the one who made it all or nothing. He could take an emotion to the moon and back in a heartbeat.

“You could’ve said no,” he says as if reading my mind. He spins me around to a drumroll. When I land back in his arms, he squeezes me even tighter. “See that? You can spin away, but always you end up in my arms.” He kisses my neck. Good gawd, does this man remember my buttons. “It feels so good to have you back in my arms,” he says into my ear. “I wonder where we’d be if we never broke up.”

We’d be married, with at least two kids. “Me, too,” I say. “But you’re happy with Iza?” I question. The saxophone kicks in, slowing the tempo even more. He twirls me around. “I mean, she’s so gorgeous.” And I bet she didn’t just down a thousand calories in two minutes flat.

“She’s not you. It’s not the same with her. I don’t think I realized it until our rumba the other night.” He cradles my face and looks into my eyes. “We can win again, Sal. Let’s beat Jared and Vika. I don’t ever want to dance with another woman again.” There he goes again, letting his emotions rocket to the moon—and taking me with him.

I’d forgotten how good that ride could feel.

I lean into Genya, my first and only love. He embraces me in his arms, and I remember who I was when I started to dance with him. We built our world together. And I tore it apart. And now I am back where I should be. In his embrace. Swaying to the music as if we have never been apart.