Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

We made it, grandma.

Under that picture of grandma and me, I had a silver framed picture of my parents. It was the only image I had of my dad and mom. In the photo, Mom held me in her arms. Grandma had given me the original. I’d made a copy and gifted it to grandma. She’d taken it with a sad smile.

The next day, I found that copy in the trash, pulled it out, and hid it in my room. I never asked grandma why she threw it away, and I never pushed her for more images of my parents.

I studied the picture for the thousandth time in my life. I had my father’s eyes. Grandma had them too. It was a Jones thing. The rest of me was all my mom. The shape and size of my face. Even the dark brown complexion. I touched the frame. One couldn’t see how worn it was on the edges. As a kid, I’d pulled it out so much and then slept with it under my pillow. It was only fitting that it now sat on my vanity table.

I hope you both are proud of me.

I checked my watch.

The show would begin in thirty minutes.

I plugged my headphones in and played slow classical music. This was another part of O’s and my routine.

There was a soothing power to music. A good relaxing sound absorbed all my stress and anxiety. My pulse decreased. My breathing slowed. Harmony came, restoring my mind and body.

In my mind, I visualized me performing as Nikiya. I saw myself doing an amazing job. I focused on wining the crowd and simply doing my best. Any mistake would be just that, but I knew that it wouldn’t represent me as a person.

You’re going to do a great job.

Last part of the tradition was the perfume. A splash of a really good scent somehow helped a show. Surely, the danseurs didn’t mind getting too close to me, when I smelled good.

I checked my watch.

Ten minutes.

I turned off the music, set the headphones on my vanity table, went to the center of the room, and got on my knees.

While O didn’t pray or believe in God, I always made her do this last step with me. On my knees, I bent over and lowered even further, pressing my forehead to the ground and not caring if some of the makeup was ruined.

Thank you, God. Thank you for waking me up. Thank you for keeping me safe. Thank you for this opportunity. Thank you for every moment of this day. I ask for your continued protection. Your continued blessings. Your continued love.

Out loud, I ended the prayer. “In Jesus name we pray. Amen.”

My hands shook as I rose.

I checked the ribbons on my shoes and made sure everything was secure. I would be doing that incessantly until the performance began. If the shoes didn’t stay on, then I would fall and crash to the floor.

A knock came to my door.

I walked over and opened it.

Akiva stood on the outside. He wore a tuxedo. His hair was slicked back.

Never had he personally come to me before a performance. In fact, he’d never spoken to me until today.

He held a crystal vase full of pink roses in his hands. “It is not much. Especially, compared to the flowers you have already received. I am sure there will be more this evening. Please accept this small token of congratulations.”

I blushed.

“I want to be the first to give you roses.” He stepped into my dressing room and set the lovely vase on my table. “Would that be okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Akiva gazed at me. “You look amazing. If they do not get intoxicated from your beauty, then they will surely be drunk off your dancing.”

I blushed again. “Thank you.”

He extended his hand. “Can I escort you to the stage?”

“Uh. . .sure.”

“We’ll want to do a grand announcement, before the performance begins.”

My stomach twisted. “That. . .sounds good.”

I could’ve said more, but I might’ve vomited soup all over his tuxedo.

Here we go. The moment of my dreams is really happening.

We left the quiet of my dressing room and entered the mayhem of backstage.

A theater’s backstage represented a small city of organized chaos. Hundreds of dancers. Twice as many costumes, wigs, and props lined the walls. Stagehands ran here and there. Ballet masters jogged the other way, checking on this and that.

Scattered through the crazy, a few physical therapists kneeled on the floor, assessing particular dancers who had injuries from previous performances. I could see the terror on the ballerina’s faces as their feet were checked. Surely, they prayed for the doctor’s okay to dance.

Near the physical therapy area, other ballerinas laid back on chaises with their legs ensconced in a long, black tube. O needed that a few times, when she’d injured herself during practice. The tube was supposed to break up the lactic acid in the ballerina’s muscles.