“Thanks for the pizza,” I say, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.
“There will be a lot more pizza. And dim sum,” he says. “Tacos, too.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking into a smile. Then I turn and let myself out his front door. My heart is singing and I feel like the entire universe has expanded. A delighted smile sits on my face as I walk to my apartment, digging in the bottom of my bag for my key.
The power I feel at not having Katerina lording over my every move is a buoyancy, the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. Dash wants to manage me. I am no longer a caged bird.
If I’m free to sing and fly and maybe I’ll no longer hate being me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dashiell
I told her to let go. I didn’t mean to throw everything away.
Two days pass, and while my lawyers are still drawing up the final contract, Natayla Koslova has spun out of control. She quit the Studio Company by calling into a major news outlet’s morning show and announcing it to the commentators, who promptly invited her on the show. I listened to the audio this morning in the car while my lawyer advised against signing my name into a contract with Koslovas. I told him I wasn’t paying him for opinions but rather to get the fucking work done.
Then she donated all her clothing to Goodwill. Mom left me a voicemail from Taye’s apartment, wondering if everything was all right.
“Hi Sweetie, I’m here at Sam’s and she’s uh, hired some movers to remove her wardrobe. It’s fairly extensive. A good truckload. Well, change can be good. I’m the first to say it, and lord knows we moved in here quickly and furnished in haste as well…Honey,” the next part she whispered, “I advised her to keep something to get her through the next week, so she’s wearing your t-shirt and boxers. It’s fine. But Sam told me she’d rather it all be gone. They’re taking her shoes, a lot of designer shoes. Well, never-you-mind, Dash. There they go. I’ll go see what I can dig up from my closet until she can go shopping...”
My mom’s voice faded, or I got frustrated and hung up. Natayla won’t pick up my calls, so I’ll have to wait and catch her at home, but I’ve got classes to teach, rehearsal I’ve committed to, and obligations I’d rather not screw up. I just hope I haven’t created a monster.
“Hey, Ma. It’s Dash. The clothing thing is fine. I’m sure it’s her way of getting a symbolic fresh start. I’m speaking with Donavan Tate after rehearsal tonight. Sam’s a big enough star for them to let this slide. Not all negative publicity is bad. I’m working on a spin that will iron things out. But if you could keep an eye on her until I can get home tonight. Uh, she shouldn’t be alone. Thanks.”
I don’t want to worry my mom too much, but I also don’t want Natayla trashing her life and career to spite her horrible mother. That will only hurt her in the end, as Katerina is evil and apparently, indestructible.
I turn off my phone as I pull up at the Ballet Arts building. I need to get through the next four hours and then I can talk some sense into the ballerina-gone-wild.
After a few hours of rehearsal, I’m fucking spent. My muscles burn and I want nothing more than to crash into my bed and sleep off the soreness. Tate said he’ll give her another chance so long as she doesn’t blow off rehearsals. Katerina might be a fucking nightmare, but she built a strong reputation for Sam that won’t disappear overnight. She’s been dependable since she was four, so these choreographers can deal with one bender.
I’m punching in her contact on my phone when I walk past the security desk. The guards have TMZ on loud and, as usual, they’re going apeshit over some bullshit celebrity drama.
“That’s right,” the announcer says. “You heard it here first. Koslova is a third-generation dancer following in her mother and grandmother’s footsteps. The usually low-profile star is allegedly under new management and the change has prompted some ballerinas-gone-wild behavior, completely out of character for the novice to partying.”
I stop dead in my tracks and drop my keys on the floor. Without explaining myself, I stride to the security desk and bark at the attendants, “Where the fuck is she?”
“Who?” they ask me, their eyes searching for another person.
“Natayla Koslova. The one they’re reporting on!” I yell.
“Oh shit,” one says. He wipes his brow. “They said she’s at the Lotus Club, getting wild on the dance floor.”
I turn on a dime without thanking them or confirming. If I have to hear the radio say one more thing about Sam, I’ll smash it to pieces in front of them. It takes me two seconds to reach the Maserati, and I back out of my parking spot with a screech, marking the pavement.