Page 45 of Sway

16

Vika

JIMMY CHOO IS a fucking idiot! For the second time in thirty seconds, I nearly face-plant in the parking lot on these stupid stilettos. Clearly Choo never chased a rock star in heels. “Antoshka! Wait up! Antoshka!”

Up ahead, Tony stops and turns. Finally!

I wave my arms. “Over here! Hello!” He spots me. “I can go after all.”

He swings his arm wide to wave me over. When I get there, he’s laughing. I pat my hair down. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You. You run like a girl, woman.”

I swat him with my Versace handbag. “And I dance like goddess. Now shut up and tell me where you plan to take me. Benny just called and he decided to catch redeye to Australia. I’m all yours.”

“Cool! We’ll grab a bite at Bella, then hit my club, Rok Bar.” He swings his leg over his motorcycle. “Hop on, mama.”

Looking at him draped over that motorcycle, thirteen years fall away and I’m a teenager again, posters of Tony all over my wall. Tony hands me a spare helmet that he keeps on the back of his bike, probably just in case he needs to give a groupie a ride. “Let’s ride!”

Tony hasn’t said a word to me about the L-stuff or that rosy night at my trailer since it happened. And Vika isn’t no dummy—I haven’t talked about it, either. The weirdest thing is that it hasn’t been weird between us at all. We dance, we talk, and, now, we party.

I try to get my helmet on but it won’t fit. Tony turns to me and smooshes my hair into the helmet. I feel claustrophobic. I swing my leg over the back of his bike and wrap my arms around his waist. I turn my head to the right, my cheek pressed into his back, absorbing and savoring this moment.

We roll off, cruising from the studio down to Las Palmas Avenue. Tony pulls into his VIP parking space at the back of his club, and we walk through the main entrance of Bella.

Paparazzi are screaming at us, begging for a picture. Thankfully, I look fabulous. I am wearing a jade Ingwa Melero Cuenca dress and nude Jimmy Choo pumps. Not an outfit for easy riding, but I managed. Ken Paves added subtle, strategically-placed emerald extensions in my hair to match my eyes and dress, and I look hot as all hell. I seductively lean into Tony and place my hand on his chest and give my best media grin.

We walk into Bella and are escorted to a private table in the celebrity section. A-list movie star Grant Asher and his starlet wife Winter Reed are on our right, that obnoxious couple from Bravo’s top reality show is sitting in the back, and boy bander Rick Lawrence and his flame, former MTV VJ Victoria Mason, are cuddling at a table in front of us. I force a fake smile and wave to Rick, even though he tossed our friendship aside like an old dance shoe after we won Dancing under the Stars. Who cares? I’m here with Tony Zave, which in my book is a way better deal than being friends with some D-Lister.

“Hey, Grant, dude, how are you?” Tony asks. “I’d like you to meet my lovely partner in crime, Vika.”

“Nice to meet you, Vika.” He stands up and bows like some 1920s gentleman. “This is my wife, Winter.”

No shit. “Hi, guys, so nice to meet with you.” I decide to act casual. That’s the best tactic when dealing with celebrity types. I focus on the matching red Kaballah strings that he and Winter are wearing. “Sorry I missed your Purim party. I would have loved to go. Tony told me you all had fun.”

“No big deal, hope to see you next time,” Winter says. “Good luck on the show. You’re the best. I twittered yesterday that I think you’re going to win.” Grant winks and they both give me thumbs up.

Hey, there, thumbs up from Grant and Winter. Who needs a stupid crystal encrusted dance shoe championship trophy?

Tony and I sit down. I flick my murderous heels off under the table. Uh oh—there’s pasta on this menu. I would kill for some creamy pesto penne but my costumes won’t allow it.

The waiter comes to take our order. “I’ll have the Caprese salad with celebrity tomatoes, fresh buffalo mozzarella and basil, and a grilled salmon with no potatoes or pasta. Can I get side of spinach, steamed, no oil. And Lemon Drop.”

“Salmon? Babe, why don’t you have the pumpkin ravioli? It’s amazing.”

Benny would never let me order pasta. Especially not during the season. “Antoshka, I can’t . . .my costumes have to fit.”

He shakes his head and then looks up at the waiter. “I’ll start with the fried calamari and then I’ll have two orders of the pumpkin ravioli, just in case the lady changes her mind.” He winks at me.

Thirty minutes later, I’m gobbling down the pumpkin ravioli. Tony was right—it was amazing. He orders chocolate mousse. At the end of our feast, Tony sips his Grey Goose dirty martini then wipes some chocolate off my lips and leans into me. “I wanna show you something.” He rolls up his sleeve and I see a bandage over his right forearm. “Take it off.”

I pull back the gauze. There, still red and bruised, is the outline of a woman’s body. My body. Tony has tattooed my ass and legs in dance heels on his arm.

Oh, no, here we go. “Impressive. How’d they find any blank space?”

“I was saving a place for my next wife.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

“Sucks for her, ‘cause now she’ll have to stare at my body for the rest of her life.’” He doesn’t respond. “Antoshka—”