Golden Dancer (4 page)

There were titters from the corps who sat and stood around the perimeter of the rehearsal hall in rehearsal dress, pink tights, black leotards, and the occasional leg warmer. When he looked up, the laughter stopped instantly. He could see their pretty, slim forms reflected in the mirrored walls, trying so hard not to laugh at the big star. Some bloody star.

The lithe Frenchman leaned over to be face-to-face with Trelain. “Now, now, dear, you could never be a hippo. Maybe just a little water buffalo. A very graceful water buffalo, of course. Why don’t you go get some water or coffee while I rehearse the girls?”

“You’re humoring me, Andre.”

“Well, darling, I don’t need to be hard on you when you’re so very hard on yourself.”

Trelain sighed and stood.

Andre waved a hand. “Go. Go find the good boy Trelain, and return when you have recovered him. Shoo.”

Trelain hitched up his tights and walked out of the hall. Maintaining any semblance of dignity around that old queen was impossible. Trelain admired the man, though he seldom said it. Fifty-four years dedicated to the craft. Andre had been a really fine dancer in his youth, as a principal in Paris. Now he put other dancers through their paces.

Trelain stalked down the hall of the music center. Of course, these were the hidden halls, only seen by the performers. Not nearly as grand as the spaces above. Chyort, what was wrong with him? Yes, he could be a drama queen, he knew that, but nothing got in the way of his dancing. Nothing but that bloody reporter. He stopped and leaned against the wall. A few other dancers passed, but no one would interrupt him. The perks of being a star.

He still felt like someone had hit him with a board, right in the chest. This was a highly inappropriate feeling. Yes, the man was bloody attractive. Tall, lean—from running, he guessed. And all that curly, messy dark hair. Trelain wanted to drown in it. Fuck, there were a dozen men, a hundred, ready to line up their dicks to pump his dancer’s arse. Why in fucking hell did he have to get engaged by a straight man? Or one who thought he was straight, at least. But the bloke was just so—what? Interesting? Compelling? There was a sense of intensity, powerful curiosity, as if he wanted to eat the world and swallow it whole. Trelain pushed away from the wall. True, but he knew what he wanted Mr. MacKenzie MacAllister to eat, and it wasn’t the world. Bloody brilliant! A new low in his checkered personal relations.

He walked into the small break room and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

“Mr. Medveyev?”

He turned to see Allison Archer, the program manager for the music center, a perfectly groomed woman—in her early fifties, he guessed—brown hair pulled back in a chignon, probably mimicking the dancers she saw every day. Trelain forced a smile. “Please, call me Trelain.”

She beamed. “Thank you, Trelain. Are you finding everything to your liking? The practice rooms?” She gestured toward the facilities.

A rehearsal hall was a rehearsal hall. Seen one, as they say—but this was her baby. “Yes, everything is quite satisfactory. Thank you.”

“I wanted to remind you of the reception following opening night. I do hope you’ll be able to join us. A number of our principal patrons will be there.”

Bollocks. He hated these bloody events. He beamed. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Splendid. I have to tell you. I can’t wait for the performance.” She actually giggled. “I’m so excited. My phone has been ringing for days with friends trying to get tickets, but there are simply none to be had.” She started to touch his arm in her enthusiasm, realized what she was doing, and pulled her hand back like she’d nearly missed a third-degree burn. “Well, merde, as they say. See you tonight.” She waggled her fingers.

He watched her retreat and sipped his water. Yes, tonight.
As the Yanks say, get your head on straight, Trelain, and let that friggin’ reporter go back to his…whatever the hell reporters do
. He headed back toward the rehearsal hall.

* * *

Mac stared out the window beyond his computer screen. The view of the dense trees and steep slopes of Laguna Canyon always comforted him. Not so much at the moment. He looked at the computer, then away. Even this story he’d found on Terrebone wasn’t doing it for him.

Crap, what had he done? What had he been thinking? Every minute of last night felt like some other guy had cranked that guy’s cock. Shit, he just thought of it and his mind bounced off in retreat.

“Mac. You writing?”

He turned toward the voice. Debbie always walked right in. They had a special signal if either of them had company and didn’t want to be disturbed. But if there was no rock on the porch, in she came. Hell, he hadn’t had a rock on the porch in a long time.

She walked into his tiny living room, which also served as an office. It was an old Laguna-style cottage. He called it comfortable, but somebody else might think seedy. Originally, it had been constructed as someone’s summer retreat back in the early twentieth century. It wasn’t really up to the rigors of everyday life, especially in rain or wind. But now it was spring, so the old girl held up fine.

Debbie patted his shoulder as she passed him on her way to the couch. “Hey, buddy. You writing?”

“Kind of.” Funny, he always felt completely at home with Debbie, but right now he felt awkward. Afraid those perceptive brown eyes would see too much, maybe?

She plopped down, the indeterminate fabric making a squishy sound. “You doing that ballet piece? I don’t want to disturb you.” Of course, she didn’t look like she was about to get up and leave.

“No, I posted that yesterday, right after I saw the rehearsal.” Yeah, and before he’d entertained the lead dancer with a nice handjob. Shit.

“So, you working on Terrebone?”

“Yeah.” He pushed his office chair away from the computer and turned toward her.

She laughed. “You know, sometimes I feel sorry for that guy you’re so obsessed with proving a thief.”

Mac frowned at her. “He is a thief. You wouldn’t doubt my time-honored instincts, would you?” He tried to grin.

“Sure, Mac. It’s just that the guy made his millions on his own. He’s a real genius and a true entrepreneur. Hell, he gives away a ton of money to charity and, I don’t know, securing world peace or something. He strikes me as one of the good guys. Why would he steal some statue when he could buy sixty of them?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Shit. “I don’t know, but I do know he wanted that statue really bad—bad enough to do something outside the box to get it, I figure. And he certainly has the resources to get the job done.”

She made a humming sound. Not too convinced. “So give. How was it? Is he as amazing as they say?”

“Terrebone?”

“No, nitwit, Medveyev.”

Mac glanced away. Amazing in more ways than one. “Yeah, he’s amazing.”

She leaned forward, throwing the curly red mane over her shoulder to get it out of her face. “Yes, and…? You see the greatest dancer of his generation, and you’re not running off at the mouth? Hell, are you sure he was that great?”

He had to move. He got up and walked the few steps into the little kitchen. “Yes, he’s that great. You want a beer or some iced tea?”

“Tea, thanks.” He could feel her looking at his back as he fished the pitcher from the refrigerator and poured the tea. He knew he should be talking a blue streak about the man, but he just couldn’t do it. Every feeling he had about Trelain seemed too personal to share. Too revealing.

“Mac, are you okay?”

Yeah, he knew that question was coming. He didn’t know how to answer it. He turned with two glasses of tea, a smile plastered on his face. “Sure, I’m fine.”

She cocked her head and looked at him sideways. “No, you’re not. What’s going on? Did the ballet thing bring up bad memories or something? Shit, sweetie, I didn’t mean to drag you back in time.”

“No, nothing like that.” He handed her the glass and sat in the comfy chair opposite the couch. The room was just big enough for a little sitting area, his desk, and a million books.

She took a sip. “So what, then? And don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ crap.”

Okay, she was his best friend. Nobody knew him better than Debbie, including his parents. But still… “Something happened I wasn’t expecting, that’s all.”

“What? At the ballet?”

“The ballet was phenomenal. The Russian is brilliant. Beyond description, really.” He sighed. “The rest of it feels weird to talk about.”

Her eyes widened. “To me? It feels weird to talk to me, who held you on the toilet when you were so sick you couldn’t poop by yourself? Baby, this is serious.”

“It’s not that big a deal.” Who was he kidding?

“Oh really?” So, he wasn’t kidding her. Must be the other person on the premises.

He got up for more tea. “I had this weird idea I could write a profile on the guy for the
Window
.”

She stretched her legs out on the couch. “So why’s that weird? Woo would love to have a profile of a celebrity like him.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figure. Plus the investigation of Terrebone has cut down on my output some, so I figured it was a win-win.” He sat and sipped. “So, we went to dinner together, uh, so I could interview him.”

She was very still for a few seconds. “Mac, did you have sex with Trelain Medveyev?”

“Shit!” Hell, cold! Iced tea flowed all over his lap. He jumped up, ran for the kitchen, and grabbed a towel, mopping at his wet crotch.

She giggled. “That struck a nerve.”

“No, it struck my balls, which are about to shrivel to the size of raisins. Shit, why would you say that?” He mopped some more, but it was hopeless. Soaked to the skin. She started to answer. “No wait. I gotta change these pants. Think about how fucking repentant you are for accusing your best friend of being gay while I strip.”

He stalked down the short hall to his bedroom, putting on a show about what an ungrateful wretch she was, but his blood felt cold in his veins. Why would she say that? He pulled off the cargoes and his underwear, left them in a heap, and grabbed a pair of floppy shorts. He yanked them on commando, then leaned against his dresser. Crap, he wanted to escape through the window. He did not want to hear why she’d asked that question. But he knew he’d drive himself nuts guessing. He had more curiosity than sense, so he’d better find out.

He pushed off from the dresser and walked down the hall lined with photos of him and some of the celebrities, statesmen, and murderers he’d interviewed. Who’d have thought a profile of a fucking ballet dancer would be the one to do him in?

She hadn’t moved, just flipped through a magazine and sipped tea as if she hadn’t just asked the guy she’d once had sex with if he fucked guys.

He flopped into the slightly damp chair. “So, was I that bad?”

She looked up. “What?”

“When we had sex, was I so bad you figured I was gay?”

She smiled and put the magazine on the end table. “Mac, the sex we had was fine.”

“Fine! Shit, that’s the ‘nice personality’ of the sex world.”

That made her laugh. “We both know what we had was never passion. So the sex was nice, pleasant, but didn’t set the world on fire, okay?”

He looked down at the worn hardwood floor. Not like a certain handjob that had kept him tingling until morning. “Yeah, I guess. So why did you ask that question?”

“You remember Jerry, that intern we had?”

“Yeah, cute little twink.” Oh, he shouldn’t have said that.

She glanced at him. “Yeah, I remember you told me that at the time. Anyway, he had a huge crush on you. Did you know that?”

He shrugged. “Kind of.”

“I kept telling him to leave you alone because you were straight. He insisted he had the best gaydar in southern California, and you were not straight. He said bi maybe, but not straight.”

“Crap, Debbie. You believed him? I’m your friend, for crap’s sake.”

She leaned forward, hands on knees, staring at him. “Mac, first off, why would I care if my friend was straight or gay or bi? It makes no difference to me. I didn’t
believe
him, as you say, but it is true that you have a miserable love life. Have you ever been in love, or even really been gone on a girl?”

Had he? “I really liked Betty back in high school. We dated for three years.”

“Have a lot of sex?”

He looked at the floor again. “Well, no, she was a virgin.” He sat back. “But she gave me a lot of head, and I loved it.”

“Sure, what guy doesn’t like his cock sucked? Actually, sweetheart, sometimes I think you use work and things like this Terrebone obsession to take the place of relationships and sex. Maybe it’s because you’d really like to be with men but aren’t facing it.”

“Come on, Debbie, I’m twenty-seven years old. If I was attracted to guys, I’d know it.”

Her warm brown eyes gazed at him with affection. “And do you know it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you attracted to guys and just ignoring it because you think it’s not okay for you?”

Hell, was he? He sure had loved the wanking sessions in college. He’d had a few in high school too. And last night? Okay, not going there. “Why would that be true? The ballet world is filled with gay men. I was raised with them.”

“Yeah, but your father got accused of being gay even though he was married and had a kid. Right?”

“Yeah, it pissed him off.”

“So? Did you decide it was not okay for your family to be gay? For you to be?”

He threw himself back into the cushy chair and flopped his legs over the arm. Yeah, his father didn’t mind gay men, as long as they weren’t in his family. Deep down, Mac knew that his father had run Paavo off to keep him away from his son. But he hadn’t wanted to have sex with the guy. Just admired him. Hadn’t he? “Crap, this is too deep for me. And for the record, I didn’t have sex with Medveyev, so the point is moot.”

“So what did you do that’s got you so damned worked up?”

He threw his legs back on the floor. “Crap, I jerked him off, and he did the same to me, and it was just because I tried to massage his sore damned leg, and he got this hard-on, and he’s beautiful and… Shit.”