Slave to the Rhythm (26 page)

Since he came home yesterday, Ash had been a different man: happy, confident, so much fun to be around.

But Ash had gotten a temporary work visa before—why couldn’t he get another? This wasn’t mission impossible.

I flipped open my laptop and started frantically typing questions into search engines.
What sort of visa did he need? How could he get one? How quickly?
But the answers were unambiguous.

Ash was a visa-overstayer, and therefore an illegal immigrant. But because someone had traveled out of the US on his passport, he was technically not in the U.S. either.

My mind whirred. There must be a way to help him, some sort of special dispensation. Did the Pope intervene on work visas? Probably not.

But God forgive me—that was what gave me the idea.

Because then I saw the words that stopped me in my tracks:

It is possible to obtain a green card based on marriage to a U.S. citizen even if you have overstayed your visa.

A shiver ran through me, a spark of possibility.

No, that was a really dumb idea. Just, no.

I read through the whole website, certain that there must be another way.

All of this depends on your ability to prove that you entered the U.S. legally
, which he had.

You will also need to show that your marriage was entered into in good faith and not to take advantage of U.S. immigration benefits. You can do so by providing evidence such as photographs, a marriage certificate, utility bills, bank statements, and a lease or insurance policies in your name as well as your U.S. citizen spouse’s name.

After everything that Ash had been through, after everything my beautiful country had done to him, didn’t he deserve his chance?

I could help him.

All I had to do was marry Ash.

Laney

I BEGAN TO
sweat. What the hell was I thinking? I was a police officer’s daughter and I was planning to break the law. What would Collin say? He was already jealous of Ash. Maybe if I explained, he’d understand? Yeah, right.

Ash’s voice made me jump.

“What do you think, Laylay? Pretty good money, eh? You’ve got to come to the premiere. I’ll buy you a new dress, something upmarket, uh, upscale, you know? Michigan Avenue.”

Ash was panting slightly, having run up four flights of stairs from the basement, but still grinning from ear to ear.

I gave him a weak smile.

He picked up on my mood immediately.

“What’s wrong? You look sick,” he said bluntly.

“Look . . . just sit down for a moment. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“No! Just . . . no!”

“You want me to leave?”

“No! Ugh! Will you listen for a moment!”

We stared at each other, Ash’s lips tightening with annoyance.

“I’m not pregnant, God no! And I’m not asking you to leave.” I took a deep breath. “There’s a problem with your contract.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction, but his eyebrows drew together in a worried frown.

“What problem?”

I sighed. “You don’t have a visa.”

He shrugged, unimpressed. “I’ll get one. I got one before.”

“It’s not that easy. Technically, without your passport you’re a non-person. And even when that’s sorted out, which could still take weeks, there’s no guarantee that you’ll get the new visa. They’ll see you as an over-stayer.”

“An over—what?”

“An illegal immigrant.”

“But . . .”

“I’m sorry.”

“Weeks? You think it could take weeks?”

No, I think it’ll be never.

Ash stood up and started pacing the floor. Then he strode to the balcony, flinging open the doors and letting in a freezing blast of icy air.

His fingers gripped the metal, and he leaned over the balcony, dangerously far.

“Ash!”

At my panicked shriek, he looked over his shoulder toward me, his eyes bleak. With a shake of his head, he walked back inside and closed the doors behind him, leaving the room chilled. Then he slumped onto the couch and his head thudded against the wall.

“It’s over, isn’t it? The Bratva have won. I’ll have to go home with my tail curled.”

“You’ll . . . what?”

He waved his hand impatiently. “Like a dog. With my tail between my legs. What else can I do?”

“You could marry me.”

I mumbled the words so quietly, I wasn’t sure if I’d meant for him to hear them.

But he did.

His expression froze in shock.

“Forget it. It’s a stupid idea.”

I stood up and walked into the kitchen to hide my embarrassment.

Ash followed, leaning against the wall as I rummaged in the fridge for juice.
Pineapple. Why did he always buy pineapple?

The silence was painful. I could hear blood pounding in my ears, a loud roar of humiliation.

“You’d marry me?”

His words were as quiet as mine, but I heard him with perfect clarity.

Would I?

I closed the fridge door and turned to him. His beautiful face held no expression, and his voice was flat.

“Then you could get your green card.”

“What about Collin?”

“After two years, we’d get divorced.”

His face shifted marginally and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“A pretend marriage?”

“Well . . . yes.”
Had he thought I meant something else?

“You’d do that? For me?”

I shrugged, uncomfortable under his burning gaze.

“We’re friends. I want to help you. But, uh, we probably shouldn’t tell anyone.”

His forehead wrinkled in a deep frown.

“You’re ashamed of me?”

“Ash, no! Of course not. It’s just, well, marrying to get a green card is illegal.”

He sighed and closed his eyes.

“I don’t want you to get into trouble, Laney.”

“I won’t. Just as long as we keep quiet.”

Ash

I couldn’t sleep. No matter how many times I shifted on the uncomfortable couch, or tried to empty my mind. I kept thinking about Laney.

When she’d first suggested marriage, I think I stopped breathing. I’d never met a woman who’d even made me want to consider it. The only commitment I’d ever needed was to my art, to dance.

But marrying Laney . . . I wasn’t hating the idea. I couldn’t believe she’d do this for me, basically putting her life on hold—again—so I had my shot.

The woman was so selfless. But . . .

I couldn’t do it to her. It was illegal, she said, but it would also fuck up her relationship with the prick. Not that I gave a shit about him, but I didn’t want Laney to get hurt. She didn’t deserve that.

I’d said we should both sleep on her idea, because saying anything else seemed impossible.

I soon got bored of thrashing around alone in what passed for my bed.

I made sure Laney’s bedroom door was shut, then padded around the small living room, moving back the few pieces of furniture to create a dance space. Tonight I needed something to calm and focus me.

People think rumba is the dance of love, but to me it’s the dance of passion. It can be angry, sad, selfish, dramatic, jealous, cathartic and loving—all the passionate emotions. Besides, I preferred Rumba Flamenco to its safer cousin, ballroom rumba. This dance was part rumba, part Paso, part Flamenco—full of intensity. You needed focus to dance it well, full concentration. It suited me right now. I needed it.

Laney had left her iPhone in the kitchen, so I plugged it into the docking station and turned the volume down low as Hozier’s
Take me to Church
flowed softly through the speakers.

My body understood this: music, movement, the single-minded focus that comes from being carried by the sounds, the lyrics, that crazy synergy of a perfect moment of dance and song.

I danced until sweat poured from my body and my muscles ached for relief. But it was my mind that needed the escape from the thoughts that hummed like angry bees, the stings of honesty the sharpest and deepest.

You can’t let her do this.

She wants to help.

It’s a mistake. You know it. Don’t let it happen.

Shut up! Leave me alone!

It means nothing. You can never have her. She’s with another man.

He’s a prick.

She loves him.

I don’t think so.

It doesn’t matter what you think—she’s not yours.

“Stop!”

“Ash? What’s wrong?”

Laney stood blinking in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

I turned around, wishing I hadn’t woken her raving like a lunatic.

“I’m sorry.”

I shut off the music.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I know music helps you, dancing helps you.”

I gave her a frustrated grimace. “Not tonight.”

She nodded her head slowly. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? About marrying me.”

“I am. It’s the most anyone has ever . . .”

“Ash, don’t say no. Let me do this for you.”

“You’ve done so much for me already. I can’t let you break the law.” I gave a humorless laugh. “Your father would kill me.”

“Ash, I want to see you succeed. You’ve been so happy since the audition. Seeing you like this . . . it’s what you should be doing. You’ll be giving pleasure to so many people. It might be the wrong thing to do in some people’s eyes, but not mine. There’s too much grimness and disappointment in the world—I don’t want that for you.”

“But marriage . . .”

She smiled suddenly. “And maybe I’m feeling a little rebellious.”

I looked at her curiously. “What are you rebelling against?”

She sighed, her smile dipping.

“The RA mostly. People think when you have an illness, a disability, that you’re automatically some sort of paragon; ‘Look how good she is, putting up with that pain. So young and in a wheelchair’, blah blah. I’m just me, and I’m not always good. Maybe I’m rebelling against expectations. Does that make any sense?”

I sagged down on the couch. I understood that, rejecting the road laid out for you, pulling to go in another direction. I understood that only too well.

She sat down next to me, close, but not touching. Then she reached over and took my hand in hers, the small fingers stroking over my knuckles.

“Maybe one day I’ll see you dance on Broadway.”

“It’s insane,” I laughed quietly, watching her fingers drawing lazy letters across the back of my hand, a shiver rippling under my skin.

“Ash! This could be your big chance!”

She was so passionate, so full of life. I admired everything about her. Except her two left feet. She couldn’t dance—probably not even to save her life. She made me smile.

“What do you get out of this?”

She blinked, confusion and irritation at war in her expression.

“Me? I . . . well . . .”

“You get nothing out of this, Laney. It doesn’t make any sense.”

She shook her head.

“You’re wrong. I get to see you live your dream. And that . . . that means a lot to me.”

But why?
“I already owe you so much.”

“No, you don’t, because you’re going to . . .”

“ . . . pay it forward. I know.”

She sighed. “Ash, everyone always says, ‘you can achieve anything if you want it hard enough’. Well, we both know that’s bullshit. I can dream about being an Olympic gymnast for the rest of my life, but it isn’t going to happen. And even though I kick and scream about not letting disability rule my life, there is definitely some dream adjustment involved. But you, you have the chance to catch that shooting star. You should do it for everyone who’ll stare at the stars, but can never be one of them.”

I shook my head.

“You make it sound selfless, but if I do this, it’s for me. And it will be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.”

Laney smiled. “Now you’re getting it!”

“You are a crazy woman. I love that about you!”

Her lips popped open and I wished I could swallow back the words, but she just smiled.

“So we’ll do it?”

I rolled off the couch and onto my knees, catching her hand as I stared into her eyes.

“Laney Kathleen Hennessey, will you do me the extreme honor of becoming my wife?”

She laughed as I kissed her hand.

“Yes, my secret husband! I agree to be your secret wife, for the period of no more than two years.”

I stood up, feeling foolish, and Laney’s gaze softened.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to do that.”

“How does this work?”

Suddenly, Laney was all business.

“They do the quick marriages at the Marriage and Civil Union Court. We get our license at the clerk’s office the day before, pay a fee and then sign the paperwork. Just forget to take in your contract to the theater for a few days.”

“That simple?”

“Let’s hope so!”

Of course it wasn’t that simple. Because right after we’d agreed to marry, she got sick.

“Ash! Ash! ASH!”

I jolted awake, my heart pounding as I almost fell off the couch. But this time it wasn’t my usual nightmares.

“Ash!”

Laney was calling for me, screaming, her cries raw.

I ran to the bedroom, throwing the door open so hard that it crashed into the wall. My eyes darted around wildly, expecting to see Sergei, or Oleg, some threat. But she was alone, splayed out on the bed at an awkward angle, one arm trapped under her body as if she’d tried to get up and couldn’t make it. Her face was wet with tears and sobbing gasps made her body shudder painfully.