Page 54 of Sway

20

Vika

TONY’S RANGE ROVER jostles me with the curves of the roads leading to the Hollywood Hills. This curve, that turn, up, round . . . I think I’m going to be sick—but it’s not because of his driving.

“Relax, babe,” Tony says, “we’re just gonna get some of your things and then we’ll split.” He squeezes my thigh.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“You’re sick?” His eyes brighten. “Maybe you’re pregnant.”

Yeah, right. And ruin this six-pack? Not a chance. This body is the only thing that’s still mine. I point toward the windshield. “Just drive.”

I’ve always loved that all the houses up here are nestled away like in an enchanted forest. Long, winding driveways that lead up to hidden paradises.

We pull up to the wrought-iron gate. That stupid cast-iron “B” Benny commissioned for it last year is nearly as tall as I am. I have Tony enter my code but the damn hunk of steel remains shut. That bastard must have already changed it. Tony presses the intercom button.

“Hello?” Benny’s voice cracks.

“Dammit, Benny, open a fucking gate,” I yell.

“Ah, Vika,” Benny says. “I see your English still hasn’t improved. As eloquent as always.” The intercom cuts to that irritating hang-up noise. Still, the gate draws open. Tony rolls through then steers up the long driveway, finally wedging in between Jared’s black Porsche Carrera and a salsa red Volkswagen Eos, license plate RMBAGRL.

“What is Diana doing here?” I slam the door of the Range Rover and charge up the stone-laid entry path. There’s a new potted planter box on either side of the door with twisted palm trees looking perky and fresh. I ring the doorbell and then swat at a branch that keeps poking me in the ear. Finally, I rip the fucking thing off.

Benny answers the door. “Hello, Vika. So great to see you again.” He’s got the schmaltziest smile on his saggy old face. So that’s how he’s going to play this.

As I’m racking my brain for the perfect comeback, Tony steps forward, lifts Benny’s left hand up, then gives him a high five. “Nice pad you got here, dude.” Then he sarcastically waltzes into the foyer.

It’s almost funny, seeing Benny caught off guard—he’s normally the King of Control. But then the distant thump of tango music comes from the ballroom and laughing is the farthest thing from my mind. I shove past Benny, leaving Tony stranded with him in the grand foyer, where the commissioned portrait of me is conspicuously absent.

The music gets louder as I close in. I can hear the tap-tapping of dance shoes. Oh, no, she didn’t . . . I sprint the last feet to the ballroom. She did! Jared and Diana are locked in a tango embrace, with the little bitch dressed in my favorite Cynthia Rowley frock.

“What in the hell is going on in here?” I scream.

They pop apart like a cork from a bottle. Tony and Benny arrive in time to referee.

“Oh, hey, there, Vika. Nothing, really.” Diana looks down at hard maple floor, which I personally picked out. “Jared and I are just practicing.”

“Practicing? This looks like a try-out!” I get in her face and yank on the sleeve of my dress. “Great dress, Diana. What did he make you do to get that? Having fun pretending you’re me?”

“Enough, Vika.” Benny squeezes his beer belly in between Diana and me. “This is my house and you will not earbash my Diana like that. I’ve had Marina pack up some of your things. She’s bringing them to the front and then you can shoot through here.”

I turn my rage to Jared. “So, you’re going to dance with her? She sucks, Jared. Sucks. You’re just going to throw away the four year winning partnership because you can’t stand up to your ol’ man?”

His thin upper lip turns up. He looks more like his dad every day. “Four years of Latin, for Christ’s sake. That’s on top of fifteen before you. I’m sick of it, Vika. Diana and I are going to try Smooth.”

“Well, that actually makes sense, since Diana’s too damn slow to ever win in Latin.”

“Vika,” Diana starts, “I—”

“Uh-uh, nyet. You don’t get to talk.” I nearly flip when Benny waves me off like some kind of gnat and signals Jared and Diana to follow him out of the ballroom. “You don’t just walk out on me!”

Tony leans into me with a hug. “Let’s just get out of here, babe.”

Hell, no! I worked too damn hard for this.I point to the monstrous crystal chandelier hanging above my head. “I picked out this chandelier, and that sofa, and I designed these stained glass windows.” There is a lone Tiffany lamp on a side table. “And this is my lamp. I bought it when I won Dancing under the Stars two seasons ago.” I rip the plug from the outlet and take my lamp.

Tony stands there, dumbfounded.