Page 16 of Sway

6

Vika

“VIKTORIA BROOKS HERE for Tony Zave.” I buzz in at the security gate as I roll up in my brand new 2018 custom made Aubergine Purple Lotus 3—Eleven convertible with biscuit leather interior, a present from Benny after I won Nationals.

So far this season has been awful. I still can’t believe I have to dance the opening with Stas. And just being in the same room with Salomé decreases my beauty. But none of that matters—because I’m dancing with Tony Zave! Tony is the drummer of Möxie Cörps, my favorite band growing up. I even saw them at the Moscow Music and Peace festival when I was eight.

Tony Zave is now a reality TV star and the network made him do Dancing under the Stars in exchange for allowing him to produce his own reality show, Metal God, where he finds a lead singer to front his new band. I’m ecstatic to dance with him. Benny has made all my dreams come true. It’s amazing what a dirty old man will do to keep his gorgeous young wife happy.

Tony doesn’t even know that he gets to dance with me. In fact, one website even leaked that he is dancing with Jenny. Can’t believe he didn’t drop out after learning that. The cameras are following us so they can capture his reaction. And where better to film me than in front of his palace. I saw it once on an episode of MTV’s Cribs. He has a Starbucks in his house! And Vika loves macchiatos.

I spent all day getting ready. I got my toes freshly painted because my assistant did research on metalsludge.com and she found out that Tony has a serious foot fetish. They might as well look nice since he will be staring at them all day. I called my hairdresser, Ken Paves, and he came over this morning to add some platinum extensions to my strawberry blonde locks and curl my hair to get the perfect bombshell look that all of Tony’s women have. Like beautiful sports cars, Tony always upgrades his women; he was with Hillary Lancaster, his ‘85 model, the star of television shows Montrose Square, Houston, and A.B. Hudson, then Penelope Andrews, his ’96 model, the former Babewatch beauty and Playboy pinup. Too bad I’m off limits and he won’t be able to drive my engine.

The cameramen signal for me to begin my ascent to Tony’s house. I gun the Lotus and whip up the half-mile driveway.

A vast array of motorcycles and cars are parked outside the house. Wow! He has the Michael Godard-designed Hummer H2, with hand-painted artwork along the body of the vehicle. Benny and I love his art—not that anyone wants to believe there’s more to me than a chiseled body and cover girl face. Heaven forbid!

The cameraman beckons for me to enter. I strategically piece out some wisps to frame my face, then adjust my implants. Ready.

A maid greets me at the door and I’m led into Tony’s abode. I’m surprised—for all the gaudy castle crap on the exterior, Tony’s inside walls are decorated with class. The maid ushers me over to the Starbucks.

“Mr. Zave will be with you in a few moments.”

Yes, ma’am. I almost salute. Kind of formal for a metal head’s maid.

I order myself a tall, iced, skim, caramel macchiato, layered not stirred, then sit down on a black leather couch in the middle of the room. The windows across from me look out on a swimming pool, waterfall, and a serene koi pond complete with a white swan. So cool. I love swans. Reminds me of my favorite ballet, Swan Lake. My mom took me to see it when the Bolshoi came to Odessa. I feel zen.

“No fucking way!”

I nearly spill the macchiato on my pants at Tony’s scream behind me.

“I can’t believe you’re going to be my partner,” he says, leaping right over the back of the couch and onto the cushion next to me. “TMZ said this morning that I was dancing with Jennifer Ming. This is awesome!”

I laugh. “Nice to meet with you, Tony.”

He grins like a schoolboy. “Seriously, I was praying that I would get you. We’re totally gonna win.”

I stop and stare at Tony’s chest. His white tee has a ballroom dancing logo that reads, “Fuck Dancing, Let’s Fuck!”

“Nice shirt,” I say.

“What, don’t like it?” He licks his luscious lips.

“I didn’t say that.”

He lets his eyes slide down my body then up again. “I’ll take it off later if you’re a good girl.”

Sounds good to me. This Greek God of a man is six feet five inches of perfection. At forty, he’s sexier now than he was in his twenties. His tousled brown mane is lightly highlighted and frames his perfect bone structure. My eyes drop to his crotch and I can’t help myself as I fondly remember the home porno movie that he and his ex-wife Penelope made. Stas and I watched it in a hotel room once, after a competition. Ten inches, baby. Lucky bitch. Benny has like four inches and he rarely gets hard, at least not without first popping Viagra. Maybe Tony and I can make our own video. Hmmm, the cameras are on now. . .

Focus, Vika, focus. “Antoshka, it’s good to see you’re in dancing spirit.”

“Antoshka?”

“It’s Russian nickname for Anthony. Like “Tony” in English. And you call me Vika.”

“I like it.” He grins and pulls me to my feet. “Vika. I want to show you how fucking committed I am to this show.” He puts his hands on my hips and does some hip-hop maneuver, probably left over from his brief musical foray into rap/rock. Then he stops and just lets his hands sit on my hips. “You are so smoking hot, baby.”

Oh, good God, this is my puberty fantasy coming true! Benny, Benny, Benny . . . Yeah, that’ll calm a girl’s libido in a heartbeat. “Thanks, Antoshka. So, we must get started. I hear Dolla and Salomé will practice eight hours a day. We must beat them. Dolla wants to win. You know that he’s the former dancer and he recently ran marathon in New York. He’s committed.”