Page 17 of Sway

“Yeah, that dude’s fucking crazy. I love Dolla. We party in the Hamptons together. But there’s no way they can win if I am dancing with you.” Tony winks at me. I get hot in places the camera can’t see.

“So,” I reluctantly step out of his hands, “where are we going to practice? The producers told me that you don’t want to practice at studio?”

“Naw, Vika. I want to stay at home so I can be near my babies.”

Babies? No one mentioned anything to me about having his babies around. I assumed they’d be living with their mother. The kids will probably be running around disrupting our rehearsals.

“But don’t worry, babe. I’ve got us covered.” Tony’s eyes glisten. “Vika, I fucking built a dance studio!”

“You built one? In here?”

“Yeah. It’s sick. I’m gonna try really hard. I don’t want to let you down.”

Love the dedication.

Behind his big brown eyes, Tony looks just like a little boy trying to find his way. He’s a Libra, I know, which means he simply exists for being in love. And I’m an Aries, so we are astrological opposites, everything I have he lacks and vice versa. Perfect match—if it weren’t for Benny, of course. Hillary, a Leo, was so selfish and focused on her career and wouldn’t give him the family he desired. And Penelope, a Cancer, completely ignored him after she gave birth to their sons. Anyone can play a bitch on TV or put on a red bathing suit and run slowly on a beach—but it takes a lot of dedication and hard work to be the two times undefeated United States Professional Latin-American Dancesport Champion.

“Okay. Antoshka,” I twirl Tony around so he’s facing me and make sure my good side is toward the camera, “we’re gonna start today with rumba. Our first dance is actually mambo, but rumba is basis for all Latin dances. Rumba is dance of love. It was created in Cuba, back when women wore veils and they couldn’t talk to men so their only communication was through dance.” I seductively sway my hips back and forth.

Tony laughs. “That’s crazy. That would suck to not be able to talk to a chick and instead have to dance. I’m so glad that I didn’t live in Cuba then.” He picks up the couch arm cover and holds it across his face. “Though I do dig veils. She’s still a mystery, you know? I was at The Seventh Veil last night.” He starts wiggling like some kind of belly dancer, waving his “veil” around.

Uh huh . . . . I can see this will be a long day. The guy can’t pay attention. At least I know what The Seventh Veil is. It’s a strip club that Möxie Cörps had made famous in its 1989 hit, “Chicks, Chicks, Chicks.” Tony hasn’t seen a thing yet. I can turn him on more with my clothes on than those tramps can wearing crystal encrusted thongs. Believe me, I know. I used to be one of those girls.

Time to focus. “Antoshka, here, put down veil.” I pull it out of his hands. “Now listen. You have to pretend that you love me. That you want me, lust for me, dream of me. That every time you think you have me, I leave.”

“That won’t be hard. Let’s do this.” He throws me over his back and carries me into the new dance studio. The cameraman nearly flips over the couch racing after us with the camera at his face.

I pat Tony’s ass as we turn the corner. “Good boy.”

He flips me down on one of the couches that he has put in the “studio.” This studio is unlike any that I have ever seen. It’s got a hardwood floor as you’d expect, but it’s jet-black maple—hardly a ballroom standard. And there are crazy crimson pentagrams on the ceiling, with black velvet curtains ensconcing the windows. He also put in a BOSE sound system.

After I fasten my heels, I slowly stand up and make sure Tony is looking at me. It’s time for teacher to take charge of her student. I gracefully slip my navy Juicy Couture sweat suit off my body, pausing as I peel it off my tight ass. Tony is mesmerized. Underneath, I’m wearing nude fishnets, black skin-tight cotton boy shorts—with my ass cheeks hanging out ever so tastefully—and a fitted, black, ribbed Möxie Cörps tank top with hot pink writing, my cleavage spilling over the top. The cameraman lies on the ground to get a better shot.

I’m getting paid for this? This is too easy.

“You know,” Tony says, “I was thinking we could dance to “Take My Breath Away” from Top Gun. I can add a new drum track and make it wicked. I love that movie. I can dress like Maverick.”

I pause. “Top Gun?” Lame. Tony is stuck in the eighties. “It’s good idea, Antoshka,” I lie. “But if we do that, producers will make us go to military base for one of their stupid clips.” Last season, I had to go to a rodeo so that my celebrity could better understand the paso doble. I stepped in horseshit. Twice.

“That would be awesome!” Tony says. “I’ve done a ton of shows on bases. I have nothing but respect for the men and women in the military.”

How sweet. Who would’ve guessed he’d be so patriotic? “Sure, okay. That’s great idea.” I point to the floor in front of me. “On your feet, warrior. It’s time to move those toes.”

I start the arduous task of training his feet. Tony is tall and gangly, but he has rhythm, which helps. And despite my original fear that he’d be hard to keep focused, he is a really hard worker. Luckily, it’s easier for the male celebrities on the show because we can just dance around the man while he stands there.

Liking his early promise, I decide to get to the goods. “All right. We’re gonna start with walks. In rumba, we walk on two, three, four, and we hold one. Like this.” I put Michael Jackson’s song “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” on repeat and start doing my rumba walks around the floor. “Keep your legs straight, your shoulders still, and don’t worry about your hips right now.”

Tony starts clod hopping around the floor. Then again . . . I put my hands on his shoulders and press them down.

“Point your toes, ankles together. Davai, Antoshka.” Dolla probably already has it perfect. “Keep your feet on ground.”

“I’m trying, Vika.” His hips are jetting side to side and his feet keep flicking off the floor.

I can’t take it anymore. “Antoshka. You look like duck. Smile, keep your back straight, chest open.”

We work on the same thing for the next hour. The camera guy dozes off on the couch.

After I restart “Just Can’t Stop Loving You” for the umpteenth time, Tony stops cold. “Vika? Can we take a break?”