Broken People (Serial)

Eight

Nicholas met Anya halfway between the train and the tent. He smiled, seeing her bounce on the tip of her toes, the way she did when she was excited, trying to achieve eye level and not quite making it.

She hung onto his arm instead. "When do we start rehearsing?"

"Tomorrow, if you like," Nicholas said, pacing his steps. Anya's long legs could easily keep up with his, but he didn't want to put more pressure on them. They were strained enough as it was, and he enjoyed a leisurely walk with the Russian ballerina by his side. Besides, he was in no hurry to give anyone the news about the police's involvement.

"I knew you'd succeed." Anya's pleased grin said more about her confidence in her power of prediction than in his ability to get things done. She turned and gave Cielo a discreet nod, then waved goodbye to the blond girl and her companion on the platform. Her attention going back to Nicholas, she pulled him along the length of the train, towards Rake and Spinner's car. "So, I've heard you're our new art director."

"That's what they're telling me, too," Nicholas said, unsure of how he felt about that. He knew, however, where this conversation was going.

"I know you'll be busy the next few days, but I trust you'll tell me when my turn comes to discuss my numbers with you."

If Nicholas hadn't known her, he would have believed Anya truly meant what her warm body rubbing against his side insinuated. "We can talk now if you want."

"Well, I don't suppose there's a way out of it?"

"What are you talking about?" Nicholas looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "I thought you'd be thrilled about this opportunity. You always talk about how you can only do silly numbers because the audience isn't capable of appreciating the serious ones. Here's your chance to do something different."

"I know, and I am thrilled. It's just that ..." Anya chewed on her lower lip, almost to the point of drawing blood. She rolled her eyes and looked away. "I haven't danced on a real stage in six years." She nodded in the direction of the city. "These people will notice."

"You were the prima ballerina at the Moscow Bolshoi Theater, and you still practice every day," Nicholas said, squeezing her arm. "These people have never seen someone dance as well as you do."

"Well ... you're sweet to say that." Anya's smile told him she agreed.

She was good, although not as good as she had once been. That was why she had left Moscow in the first place. Still, the years had been kind to her, and she was still in good shape. She would do well.

Anya didn't seem to fully believe it as she stood there, trembling in the cold. At some point, they had stopped walking and turned to face each other. Her eyes were full of anguish. This wasn't an act.

Nicholas shrugged off his coat and placed it on her shoulders. "You will be great, as always. And you can do any number you want." He wrapped the coat tighter around her. "How about Giselle? I've always thought you'd make a terrific Giselle."

"Actually, I'm thinking of Swan Lake. I feel a bit more dramatic in that." She let out a short laugh, and then her grin turned smug. "And I can also wear better costumes."

"I feel sorry for poor Cielo already," Nicholas deadpanned and resumed walking.

Anya pretended to pout for a second, then grabbed hold of his arm. Her long fingers smoothed over his white dress shirt. "Nick?"

Oh, boy ... What did she want now? Anya only shortened his name when she badly wanted something. "Yes?"

"Do I have to do the butterfly act?" Her voice had turned into a whine.

Ah, that was it. Anya hated the butterfly act, and for good reason. While Nicholas didn't care one way or the other, saying "no" would make Anya insist on showing her gratitude, and that was not the kind of complication he needed. So far, he'd managed not to form any attachments inside the circus, so he could disappear without leaving anyone heartbroken. Pleasing Anya and letting her thank him in return came too close to changing that. But then again, Anya didn't offer anyone else that kind of thanks.

"Yes," he said. "It's a hit with the crowd everywhere we go. It will be one of the highlights of the show here, as well."

"Yeah, I bet it will be," she muttered with a glare. "They'll all want front seats to watch the horror."

Nicholas deemed it wise not to comment on that. Anya's grip on his arm had tightened.

"Everything I do after that loses its value," she said. "They don't see me as a human being anymore. All they see is tubes, circuits, and wires. And it's not fair. These—" Anya pointed at her legs, "—are real. I work hard at it, harder than I would have to otherwise, and no one appreciates it."

She was right. This was the type of reaction she was getting, and for an artist, it was heartbreaking and demoralizing. Nicholas, who was basically a fraud, wouldn't have cared. It didn't mean he didn't understand her frustration, though. His arm slid around Anya's slender waist, and he pulled her towards him in a comforting hug.

"Are you sure I can't change your mind?" Anya played with his necktie. "When can I stop by your car, Mr. Art Director?" she asked with a playful smile. "I'm free every night."

Now would have been a good answer, but Nicholas held his ground. "Fine, you can do the ballet number first." He brushed his lips against her temple. Okay, it was shaky ground.

"Really?"

Her eyes shone with happiness. No way could he take the words back now, but he didn't plan to.

"Yes. They'll feel cheated when it's over, but who cares? It's one show. And we can have an animal number in the first act for comic relief."

"Thank you." Anya pressed her lips against his cheek and let them linger there.

When she pulled back and returned his coat with a victorious smile, Nicholas knew he'd been had. She had never planned to drop out of the show. She'd obtained exactly what she wanted. Still, it was nice to see her smile.

"I'll let you give them the good news," she said, nodding towards the car they were approaching and patting his shoulder lightly. "Don't let them grill you too hard!"

Anya winked and sauntered away while Nicholas veered to the left, shaking his head at the thought that, although he was closer to his forties than thirties, he was still sensitive to pretty ballerinas with cute dimples. Well, maybe not just any ballerina ...