Chapter Two
Irina eyed the stained hotel room door and let out a long sigh. She swore the splatter of green hadn’t been there the night before. She chuckled quietly. So much for the glamourous life of a ballerina. Beauty on the stage wouldn’t save her from the banal reality of life offstage.
She understood why they needed to stay in the hotel. It was cheap, and everyone knew the budget of the Angel Ballet Company was tight. As a newer company, they were still establishing their reputation and earning patrons, and as a traveling company, it was harder to appeal to the wealthy art lovers or businesses of any one area.
Irina smiled to herself and opened the door with her keycard. The small sacrifice of tolerating less than five-star accommodations wouldn’t hurt her.
It didn’t matter. It was hard to be too concerned, even with peeling paint and a musty odor. For now, her dreams continued to be her reality. After all, she got to make a living dancing, a living creating beauty in movement.
Not only that, her first solo as the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker was coming up. It was the perfect ballet for the coming Christmas season. All her hard work was finally paying off.
She stopped in the doorway and glanced at the barrel cacti lining the sidewalk on either side. A light laugh escaped her mouth. Warm air, cacti, and no snow. It was pleasant in its own way but not exactly the December weather she’d grown up with in Moscow.
Irina sighed. It was also her first December outside of Russia. She missed her homeland all the time, but leaving had been a necessary sacrifice, one she hoped she could eventually explain to her parents. They’d been convinced there was no need for a ballerina ever to leave Russia or even Moscow.
“What is so funny, bitch?” a harsh female voice asked.
Irina gasped, startled, and turned toward the source. A familiar dark-haired woman stood a few yards away, her hands on her hips, glaring at Irina. It was Emma, another dancer in the company.
The Russian ballerina let out a quiet sigh. She wasn’t surprised that Emma had harsh words for her, only disappointed.
“You’re from Los Angeles,” Irina said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I can’t understand you because of your ridiculous accent.” Emma rolled her eyes. “Learn to speak English already or go back home to Russia. It’s also annoying how you try to talk all high and mighty.”
Irina stared at the other dancer trying to decide what to say. Although she had an obvious Russian accent, no one had ever mentioned having trouble understanding her except Emma, and she was far from the only non-American dancer in the company. Maybe if she just played into the other woman’s insult, she’d be satisfied and leave Irina alone as she had on other occasions.
“I’m sorry for my accent,” she said, slowing down her speech. “As for the other thing, I can’t help it. English is my second language, and I had very strict and formal instructors. I try to be more casual, but it often sounds awkward.”
“So what did you say to begin with? About me not understanding?”
Irina sighed. “I said you wouldn’t understand because you’re from Los Angeles.”
Emma smirked, as if she’d already won. The smirk vanished, and she narrowed her eyes. “And what’s that supposed to mean? What wouldn’t I understand because I’m from Los Angeles?”
Irina gestured toward a cactus. “This does not feel like winter to me. Christmas to me. It’s too warm. Where’s the snow?”
“It’s not Christmas yet, you idiot.” Emma snorted.
“But it will be soon enough. It is why we dance The Nutcracker, no?” Irina smiled up at the sky. “The joy of children at Christmas. Playing inside with toys, loving families. A hint of winter mystery.” She shrugged. “It’s not to say they don’t have loving families here in the desert, just that I miss the snow. It’s so much part of what Christmas means to me.”
The other ballerina snorted. “If you hate it so much, why don’t you slink back to Russia?”
“We’re not always in a place like this, though.”
“We are now, bitch.”
Irina looked down and shook her head, sighing. She should just walk away, but some small part of her brain demanded she try and do something.
“Why do you hate me so much? I’ve never done anything to you.”
The corners of Emma’s mouth curled up in a sneer. “You’re you. That’s enough.”
“Is it because I’m Russian? You have to understand. I love America. I am here, am I not? I meant no disrespect to this city or the country. I just miss snow. Is that such an awful thing?”
Emma grit her teeth. “I hate you because you’re a scheming slut.”
Irina blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The other dancer stalked forward, hate in her eyes. “You’re a stupid slut. A whore. How do you say ‘whore’ in Russian? Guess I’ll just have to look it up later.”
Irina shook her head. “Why must you be so cruel? We create beauty. We should have beautiful souls. The more our lives reflect that, the better our dancing will be.”
“Now you’re saying I’m a worse dancer than you?”
Irina looked down at the ground. “I’m not saying that. I’m… I just don’t understand why you’re so angry with me.”
Emma snorted and pointed at her. “You scored the Sugar Plum Fairy solo. You know I wanted it, too.”
Irina almost laughed as the pettiness finally revealed itself more directly. She took a few deep breaths as she considered her response.
“There were auditions, and they took all of our past dancing into account, and I just did well this time.”
The other dancer shook her head. “You’re a lying little slut, bitch. You have the gall to sit there and look me in the eye and claim you’re just a good dancer? We both know that you got that part because you were willing to spread your legs for the director.”
Irina’s face heated, and she looked down. “How can you say such lies?”
Emma sneered. “It’s the truth. Admit it. I’m not leaving until you admit it.”
Irina lifted her head but withered under Emma’s glare. “How could it be the truth? It doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Why, because you’re so good and so pure? Because you’re a perfect little dancing angel?”
“No, because our director likes men. I am many things, not all good, but I’m not a man.”
Emma’s face twitched. Irina gasped and put a hand over her face. She’d not intended to sound defiant. She was just stating a fact.
Some might consider her pretty, but Irina doubted her beauty was so great that she could turn a gay man straight, especially one who had spent years around beautiful, lithe dancers already. She didn’t even understand why Emma would think that. The sexuality of their artistic director was hardly secret. Most of them had even met his boyfriend.
“You’ll get what’s coming to you, whore.” Emma spun on her heel with a grace only a ballerina could achieve and stomped off with the coarseness only a jealous rival could manage.
Irina stepped into her room, closed the door, and slid down, her back to the door, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her heart pounded, and tears pooled in her eyes.
Emma had never been kind or warm, but until the last few weeks, she’d at least not been openly hateful. Irina did her best to avoid the gossip and drama among most of the dancers, so she’d been spared having to deal with such barbs, but now escaping daily harassment was impossible.
She understood that Emma wanted her own solo, but it wasn’t like it was up to Irina, and she’d not been the only other person to get a new solo. A traveling company like the Angel had trouble keeping dancers. Opportunities would arise for dancers who put in their time and improved their technique.
Emma just needed to do what Irina had done, keep dancing well, and wait for her chance. Tearing down others wouldn’t help her advance.
Irina had already danced many lesser parts or in the corps plenty. She’d earned her solo, and she’d not be made to feel awful about that because of another woman’s pettiness.
The nightstand phone rang. Irina heaved a weary sigh and headed over to answer it. She wondered if someone had called to complain about her altercation with Emma. She doubted it—she’d heard louder and fouler arguments the night before from other nearby rooms—but she couldn’t be sure.
“Hello?” Irina answered timidly.
“Hello, my little carnation,” a deep voice said in Russian.
Irina swallowed. No. It couldn’t be. Her heart thundered, and bile rose in the back of her throat.
“Who is this?” she responded in Russian.
The man sighed. “Oh, you have forgotten me already? How disappointing, but perhaps not surprising. Loyalty was never your strong suit.”
“Yuri, is that you?” Irina offered a quick prayer to St. Xenia that it would not be so.
He chuckled, but the sound lacked even a hint of warmth. “Yes, of course it is me, my little carnation. Who else would it be?”
Nausea swept through Irina. She trembled.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Her voice shook.
“Oh, but I have so much to say to you, like how I think you have spent too much time in America. I think it’s time for you to return home, to a place more appropriate for your spirit and soul.”
“I’ve met many good people in America, and I’ve shared my love of dance with many. I am growing here.”
It was true enough, even if it didn’t apply to Emma.
Irina winced at Yuri’s booming laugh.
“I will visit my parents when I have an opportunity,” she sputtered, “but I won’t be moving back for some time.”
“You do understand, Irina, don’t you? All of what you say about your desires is pointless. I own you. You are my possession, and possessions do not leave their owners without permission. It is a logical absurdity.”
Irina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her entire body trembled now. “You cannot do anything to me now, Yuri. I am in America. You are in Russia.” She managed to still her tremors. “I have escaped you. I’m free.”
“Free?” Yuri said. “A possession cannot have freedom. How do you think you are free? Because you are far from me? That’s not freedom. That’s a mere delay.”
“You are pathetic, Yuri. You would call me to do what? To scare me so you can feel powerful? I am not scared of you.”
Irina took a deep breath.
Another booming laugh came over the phone. The trembling resumed.
“I can hear your fear.” Yuri inhaled deeply. “I can almost smell it.”
“I am free. You will never control me again.”
“I only called you to give you one last chance to beg for forgiveness, my little carnation. Don’t make me angry. We both know how unpleasant that can be.”
Irina managed a snort despite her trembling body and racing heart. It felt good to push back against Yuri. She doubted she could manage so much bravery in his presence.
“I will give you nothing. You are dead to me.”
“You’ll give me nothing? Oh, you will. Soon. All of you will be mine.” Yuri laughed darkly. “Maybe on that nice little white bus you ride around in, or outside the theater. What is it called… something Greek, ah, yes. Helios Theater.”
“You’re bluffing. You just read about it online.”
“And I saw your bus online? Even though it is a local company you are using? Am I a psychic now?”
Tears streamed down her eyes. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because you are mine, and you always will be.” The line went dead.
Irina dropped to her hands and knees, tears dripping to the floor. She’d fled from Moscow, then even from Russia. He shouldn’t be able to follow her so far away from his place of power. She never thought he’d risk it.
Was Yuri lying? Maybe he’d just guessed about the tour bus color or found something online like she’d suggested. She reached underneath her bed and pulled out a small lockbox. She fished the key from her clutch and opened the box.
The ballerina pulled out a silver handgun. She had her freedom now, and she would not let Yuri take her.