Page 3 of Sway

2

Viktoria Brooks

BENJAMIN BROOKS PINS me up against the hallway leading to our kitchen. “Hey Lassie, why don’t you come up to room 216 later and sit on my face?” He raises his furry eyebrow and attempts to give me a sexy look.

My husband is a pig. Those Don Juan words were the first that he said to me, ten years ago, at the Holiday Ball in Los Angeles on New Year’s Eve. He was fifty-five—I was fifteen. I fondly remember being so excited to meet the most successful judge in ballroom dancing. It was not your usual pickup line, but then again, we’re hardly Kimye.

Sticking with the tried and true one-liner, Benny is less successful today. “Not now,” I squirm out of his embrace and give him a kiss on his pudgy face. “I have to head to a spa at Eden Roc to get ready for tonight.” Pouting, he creeps upstairs, dragging his slippers on the marble. I push through the swinging kitchen door and grab the smoothie my assistant Marina prepared for me in the kitchen. One scoop Myoplex Lite Chocolate protein powder, one scoop frozen raspberries, amino acids, super greens, flax seed oil and skim milk . . . It’s a new recipe, but Benny’s ex-wife says it’ll shrink my ass in minutes. She would know—she hasn’t had any real food in years. Sure beats my old diet of cabbage soup and strawberries.

“I’ll be back in two hours. Tyebya lyubly.” I slip out the door and hop into Benny’s newest toy, a convertible Jaguar F-Type.

“Love you, too,” he yells out the window.

But I barely hear his words, because I’m already pulling out of our condo complex at the Fontainebleau II and heading to Ocean Avenue. The sun beats down on my chest. Orange blossoms scent the air. Within minutes, I spy two gorgeous, gay Cuban men in turquoise Day Glow shirts, sipping mojitos at an outdoor café.

Damn, I love Miami.

Reminds me of Odessa. Well, not the gays. At least the view of the water and the gathering of beautiful people. Thank God, Benny is the busiest judge on the circuit; we hit Miami at least four times a year between my competitions and his panels.

This time Benny and I are here for the United States Dancesport Championships. Tonight, I defend my Latin-American Dancesport title.

Competition day is always a headache. Everything’s on me—no on-set estheticians to tone and tan our bodies like on the set of Dancing under the Stars. If the public only knew what it took to entertain them for five fucking minutes.

I pull into the parking lot, jump out of the car, and rush into the hotel. “Viktoria Brooks, here for the ten fifteen appointment with Larissa.”

“Oh yes, Ms. Brooks. We are so thrilled to have you here. You’re scheduled for a Brazilian bikini wax with anal bleaching, a Mandarin Orange Body Polish followed by a custom sparkle spray tan, and then you’ll receive a mani and pedi while Alberto tightens up your hair extensions.” Her eyes widen. “You know, Ms. Brooks, I just love Dancing under the Stars—really, it’s my favorite show. You must lead such a glamorous life,” she gushes.

Glamorous, huh? I smile politely and go sit on the sofa. G-L-A-M-OR-OUS like the Fergie song. If only she had a clue of what I had to do to become Vika Brooks—Ballroom Champion and Reality Television Starlet. I live in the gym and the studio, sometimes dancing up to eight hours a day. I spend every weekend in a hotel in some random state competing. My diet consists of egg whites, vegetables, soup and salad. And I haven’t had a weekend off in two years. Hardly glamorous.

“Ms. Brooks, Larissa is ready for you,” the receptionist says, jolting me back to reality.

In the back room, I take off my lavender-colored velour sweat suit and my matching thong and lay spread eagle on the paper-covered table.

“Viktoria,” Larissa says, trying to take my mind off the fact that she’s pouring hot wax on my body and then gouging the hair out of my pores. “I just got tickets to the comp tonight. I can’t wait to see you win.”

I make a face but it’s not because she just ripped a hot wax strip from my armpit. “Apparently you’re only one who is sure of me. Today’s paper predicted Salomé Sanchez would win with Ricardo Mancini, that pathetic partner of hers.”

“Salami who?”

“Nobody. Just some dumpy dancer.” Mainstream America knows nothing about our world unless they see it on TV.

Larissa pauses, a new glob of pink wax on the stick in her hand. “You’re Viktoria Brooks, two-time winner of Dancing under the Stars. If this Sally chick is so wonderful, why isn’t she on the show?”

“Exactly, Larisha.” I take a deep breath. No nerves, Vikochka. No nerves. What does Salomé have that I don’t have, anyway? The Miami Herald can lick my cha-cha.

Larissa dehairs my other armpit. “Okay, honey, turn over and let’s take care of your bum.”

I get on all fours for my anal wax and bleaching. As much as these beauty treatments are a pain in the ass, it beats the way I did it back in Odessa, rubbing coffee grinds over my body to tan and whipping my body with birch leaves in the banya.

* * *

Five hours later, primped and plucked, I’m scrambling around my condo.

“Is my beautiful matryoshka doll ready?” Benny asks. He’s dressed in a blood-orange silk suit. His comb-over is the same color as the sterling silver in his Australian black jade bolo tie. He looks like Alex Trebek on acid. “Let me have a gander,” he asks. He moves toward me and I recoil. His breath reeks of Johnny Walker Green Label whiskey. Maybe I should be the one on acid.

I steady my nerves. “Sure, Venya, do I look sexy?” I run my hands seductively over my Versace slip dress, giving Benny a view of his creation. After all, he spent a fortune on my Extreme Makeover.

With the pride of Dr. Frankenstein staring at his monster, Benny wets his thin lips. “Lassie, you’re stunning. Let’s go.”