Change Partners (The L.A. Stories) Read online

  CHANGE PARTNERS

  An L.A. Stories Novel

  By

  Alexandra Y. Caluen

  CHANGE PARTNERS

  Copyright 2020 by Alexandra Y. Caluen

  Cover design by RK Young

  Cover photo by Preillumination SeTh @7seth

  unsplash.com

  CHANGE PARTNERS

  The Playlist:

  It’ll All Come Around - Back Door Slam

  Don’t Wait Too Long - Madeleine Peyroux

  City of Stars - J Fla

  Still in Love with You - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

  Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz

  Still Crazy After All These Years - Ray Charles

  Speechless - Dan + Shay

  It’s Always You - Frank Sinatra

  Love is All - Marc Anthony

  Only You – The Platters

  and

  Shall We Dance –

  Deborah Kerr, Marni Nixon & Yul Brynner

  CHANGE PARTNERS

  Chapter 1

  April 2003

  Patrick was being the Good Uncle. His brother and sister-in-law couldn’t get to their daughter’s first collegiate ballroom competition, for inarguably good reasons, and it was unthinkable – so they told him – that no-one should go. So Patrick was there, and he was doing his best to appear interested. Doing his best not to be too-obviously there only for his niece’s event. Thanking whatever gods might be in charge that she was only dancing in one, the amateur Novice Standard event, which he now knew was three dances. According to the program, there were seventeen couples competing. According to the people in the row behind him, that meant there would probably be three rounds of competition. Three dances times three seemed tolerable, if the kids made it all the way. Think positive, he told himself, even though he knew it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. He looked at the number of events still to come before theirs and sighed.

  Then he spotted Number 314, who was in many ways like the other male professionals in the ballroom: slim in a way that looked slightly underweight, groomed to the point of plasticity, focused, and mostly unsmiling. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and at least forty years old. All at once Patrick was genuinely interested. Number 314 was partnering a number of female students in different events, one right after the other. He seemed to be tireless. Patrick, of course, had very little idea what Number 314 was doing with any given partner. All he knew was that he really liked the way the man moved.

  But eventually the pro-am events were over and it was time for Ruzanna and her partner to dance. As far as he could tell, they did fine. He’d already learned that yelling a competitor’s number was – along with clapping, cheering, and whistling if possible, which for Patrick it was – the Right Thing to Do, so he did a lot of that. He saw Ruzanna smiling on the dance floor. See, this is why you’re here. Then there was a break, which seemed really long because Number 314 didn’t come back to the floor. Patrick barely paid attention after that. If he’d had any idea how long it would be before the next round of the Novice Standard, he would have gone to get a drink. One of the vodka-based variety.

  But then they were calling it, and Ruzanna and her partner made it to the next round. He yelled their number some more as they did their three dances. The people around him weren’t supporting anyone else in the event, so they yelled along with him. He was delighted. So was Ruzanna. You are racking up major Uncle Points today. Too bad he wasn’t also making time with Number 314.

  Then there was another really long-seeming interval, but this time Number 314 was back on the floor. He was now in a tuxedo, and doing what was called a scholarship event, which seemed to be the same thing as what Ruzanna was doing: three dances, not one, for student-professional couples. Patrick found the event in the program, and found the man’s name: Dmitri Vasko. It was clear that one was meant to yell the name only of the student in these pro-am events. But the number was also acceptable. He figured what the hell, and yelled for Number 314. He saw a slightly puzzled expression cross the man’s face. By the end of the third dance in that round, Patrick had yelled enough that Number 314 had located him on the risers. They made eye contact once. Number 314 didn’t smile, exactly, but there was something warm about his expression. Something interested. God let him not leave before I can meet him, Patrick thought fervently. He wasn’t sure if it qualified as a prayer. From that moment of eye contact he thought of Number 314 as Dmitri. He hoped he would get to say that name soon.

  Out on the dance floor, Dmitri couldn’t quite conceal his surprise when he heard his number. The student he was dancing with was there with a female friend; Dmitri had heard that woman’s voice. This was a male voice. And it wasn’t calling any other numbers, as sometimes happened when a ballroom aficionado felt like boosting more than one person, or one couple. Dmitri tried to look around for the source, without obviously looking.

  It wasn’t until the third dance in the round that he identified the source of the voice. Oh, he thought, surprised again. Almost startled. The man was surrounded by couples, but appeared to be alone. Not very tall, certainly not taller than Dmitri’s five foot ten. A fine head of dark hair. Oval face, arching eyebrows, large dark eyes. Cheekbones and nose of sculptural quality. Dmitri blinked, returning most of his attention to his partner. A tiny bit of his attention went to considering how he could have seen all of that in a glance.

  Another scholarship event. Dmitri was out there with another partner. Patrick yelled again. This time there was something very close to a smile. It was definitely, at least, amusement. And then it was the final round of the Novice Standard. Ruzanna and her partner made it again. Patrick and his neighbors got really loud. “I love you guys,” he said generally. “Thank you. That’s my niece, it’s her first time out in the Adult division.” They said nice things, and continued to yell along with him. But then the event was over. Now all he had to do was wait for the awards. The big suspense was whether they would place. With six couples in the final round, they had a fifty-fifty chance. Patrick left that in the hands of the gods, and studied the program to see if he could determine whether there was any chance Dmitri would be getting back out on the floor.

  He didn’t before the awards. Patrick had to make a lot of noise one more time, because Ruzanna and her partner placed third. There was some squealing and crying after that. Patrick went down to the dance floor to congratulate and hug both of them. Then he played Man In Charge, telling them to get the hell out of there because it was late, and to call their parents when they got home, because neither of them lived at home. Ruzanna said, “Are you leaving now? What level did you park on?”

  “I think I’ll stay for a while. Get educated for your next time out.” She was so pleased that she didn’t even question his motives, only kissed his cheek, thanked him for coming, and started out. She was beginning to droop a little now that the adrenaline surge was wearing off.

  Patrick sent a quick text to his brother to share the good news, in case Ruzanna didn’t think of it. Then he looked around, somewhat at a loss. The program seemed to indicate that the pro-am events were over with. There was something called a Professional Rising Star division yet to come. Would Dmitri be in that? Competitors for the professional events weren’t listed in the program. He didn’t want to leave. Not until he knew for sure there was no reason to stay.

  Dmitri was done for the day. A very long day, as these pro-am competition days always were. He’d been at the venue since seven o’clock, dancing since eight. Not continuously, of course. In between events, or between rounds, he’d done the necessary re-fueling, grooming, stretching, and costume changes. The next day would be not quite so long, but would begin early again. He told
himself it would be ill-advised to look for the man on the risers.

  He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t well-known here yet. To be noticed was always pleasant. To be noticed by someone who was not, apparently, a dancer; who was, nonetheless, present to support a dancer; and who had, out of nowhere, chosen to support Dmitri was, he decided, not to be ignored. If the man were still here, then maybe it meant something other than ‘I was here, I was bored, and why not.’ Maybe it meant they could meet in the bar for a drink. If the frisson of interest on Dmitri’s side was returned, maybe that meeting would lead somewhere else. So he did the usual end-of-business things, then raised his head and looked across the floor.

  Patrick spotted Dmitri, at a table in the second row back from the dance floor, almost directly across from where Patrick was standing. He had a getting-ready-to-go look about him. Out of his tuxedo jacket, and taking the number off the back. Then shrugging into the jacket, and packing a few things into a gym bag. He looked tired now. Probably been dancing all day, Patrick thought. When he got there and saw how many events were listed in the program, he'd mostly been grateful he didn’t have to be there for the whole thing. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder what it was like for the competitors. What were the odds this man would want to go for a drink? He knew he was staring. Wondered if Dmitri was even remotely curious about the obnoxious stranger who’d been making so much noise for him.

  Then Dmitri slung the gym bag over his shoulder and raised his head. His posture was still perfect, despite his apparent fatigue. Patrick straightened up a little bit, as if responding to a challenge. Jesus God, please see me, you gorgeous thing. This was the moment of truth. If the man looked for him, if he showed any sign of wanting to meet, the odds were good he shared Patrick’s interest. He wouldn’t look for Patrick if he were straight, or partnered.

  Dmitri was slowly scanning the risers. Patrick, down at the edge of the dance floor, took a step to the side. Dmitri saw the movement and made eye contact. He lifted his chin and inclined his head a few degrees in a way that, to Patrick, said ‘go that way.’ Patrick headed for the ballroom doors.

  When he got to the hallway that led to the hotel lobby, he stopped and looked both ways. Dmitri was out there, not obviously looking to rendezvous, but moving slowly toward the bar. Not toward the elevators that went up to the rooms, or down to the parking garage. Patrick followed him.

  They arrived at the bar within seconds of each other. The hostess looked at Dmitri, probably because he was in a tuxedo, and said, “Two?” He nodded. Patrick thought there actually is a God. They went in and were seated. Patrick laid the program on the table. He’d meant to keep it for Ruzanna; now he had another reason.

  Dmitri didn’t immediately speak after they were left alone, so Patrick did. “Hi. My name is Patrick Sarkisian. I’m an accountant.” He dug a business card out of his shirt pocket – he always carried some – and handed it across the table. The other man took it, glancing at it briefly before returning his gaze to Patrick. “My niece was competing today. I know I was obnoxious. I love the way you dance.” Stop talking.

  Dmitri slid the business card into a pocket and reached across the table. “Dmitri Vasko.” Patrick took his hand; they shook; they let go. Then a server was there to take their drink order. After she left Dmitri said, with that very faint smile, “You know how I make my living.” His voice was deeper than Patrick’s, and he spoke with an accent. Russian, or something close to it.

  “Well, I don’t have a clue how it actually works, but obviously you’re a dancer. This is my first time at one of these things.”

  “Was it interesting?”

  “It was after I spotted you.” That got something even closer to a smile. Patrick thought I will make it my life’s work to see what a real smile looks like on you, aware that something was different about this man. And something was different about the way he felt. Patrick had been in love before. Not often, and not for long, or at least not for what should have been ‘long’ in view of the fact that he was forty-eight years old. He hadn’t ever felt this particular way at the point of first meeting someone.

  Dmitri was also thinking something was different. He’d been alone for a long time. He’d moved around so much since during his career that he’d hardly had time to meet anyone, much less make a real connection, before the next job opened up. It was nearly thirty years now, of temporary homes, temporary workplaces, temporary lovers. He’d been in Los Angeles for three years and had begun to feel at home here. “Thank you for cheering for me,” he said after a moment.

  “Any time, any place, for anything.” Patrick could not have cared less about acting cool. “Do you live in L.A.?” Please please please let that be a yes.

  “Yes.” Dmitri could see the relief – the happiness – in the other man’s eyes. “I live in Culver City.”

  “I live in West L.A.” Their drinks arrived. Patrick was profoundly grateful, because the cocktail gave him something to do with his mouth other than say ‘can I see you, and if so when, and where, and for how long, and with what limitations.’

  “I travel for competition, often. My professional partner and I did not compete tonight.”

  Patrick didn’t ask what event, or events, they usually did. He didn’t care, and he was sure Dmitri would have known if he pretended he did. “Where else can I go to cheer you on?” Another faint smile. “If you sent me your schedule, I would go whenever I could.” Yes I’m desperate, don’t judge me. Being so close to this man was doing things to Patrick’s body and brain that nothing had done for a long time.

  Dmitri inhaled slowly, then drank some of his vodka and tonic. This wasn’t the approach he’d expected, which was a direct invitation to some more-private activity. He might still have been willing to explore it. The man was very attractive, and the way he’d gone about things was pleasing: observant, intuitive, intelligent, discreet. But his approach implied more than casual interest. It said Patrick was interested in him, Dmitri, the person. Not simply in Dmitri the body. Though he had no doubt that interest was there as well. “I will send my schedule,” he said after another mouthful of vodka. “To the email address on your card. Is good?”

  “Is perfect,” Patrick said, and there was the smile, and he thought, I am falling.

  Dmitri thought about that conversation later, up in his room. They’d stayed in the bar for an hour, as late as he could without losing sleep. He thought about it the next day, in the moments between rounds on the dance floor. He thought about it as he was composing an email, two days later. He’d been in the United States since he was a teenager, and had come to understand that as a ballroom professional, keeping his accent was the opposite of a disadvantage. He wrote, however, as one who spent many hours alone with books, because after ten or twelve hours in the commotion and noise of a dance studio, he craved silence. So he didn’t send only his schedule. He sent a brief letter thanking the accountant for attending the competition, making mention of how much it always meant to a competitor to hear a friendly voice, and how much it must have meant to his niece. That of course led into thanking the man, again, for supporting Dmitri. He didn’t say ‘I hope to see you soon,’ even though that would have been true. He did say, ‘It was very much a pleasure to meet you,’ which was also true. Even if the man never followed through.

  The reply he received bore not a hint of the expected surprise – Dmitri never understood why people seemed to think a dancer would be inarticulate, but many did – and instead was a chatty, friendly, engaging letter. He could hear Patrick’s voice as he read it.

  That was something else he thought about. He saw Patrick barely a week later, at a studio showcase where Dmitri performed with a student. His new acquaintance – friend, potential lover – fit in perfectly with the rest of the spectators. Most were associated with the studio in some way. Naturally, they immediately began trying to convince Patrick that he should learn to dance. He seemed to charm everyone, while promising nothing. Eventually, he made his wa
y to Dmitri, subtly creating a bubble of solitude around them. “I hope you don’t mind staying to talk for a minute,” he said. “You’ve probably been dancing all day again and all you want is to go home and put your feet up.”

  “I go home and stretch,” Dmitri said, wishing he could say ‘come home with me.’ And then, abruptly, realizing that he could. This was a safe place. But the next day he had an early lesson scheduled. “Thank you for coming. How is your niece?” That led to a friendly conversation, one that could include other bystanders – who, of course, had noticed Patrick because he was a newcomer, and because he was lovely – and one that led away from the invitation, the desire, that hovered between them. Dmitri was usually the one to bring such conversations to a close.

  This time Patrick did that, neatly steering them away from the bystanders as he edged toward the exit. Dmitri drifted along with him, amused and impressed. Then Patrick said, very quietly, “I will put up with centuries of that to stand this close to you.” Dmitri inhaled sharply; he thought his expression must have changed; at the very least, his eyes widened. Patrick’s gaze dropped to his mouth for a moment. “Thanks Mr. Vasko,” he said, making eye contact again. “I’ll tell Ruzanna what you said about the twinkle. And please tell your student how much I enjoyed her dancing tonight.”

  “I will.” Dmitri offered his hand; they shook; Patrick turned and went out, a few steps behind some other people. Dmitri took a second to quell the impulse to follow them. To follow him.

  Their next encounter was almost identical. Dmitri was dancing with his professional partner that time, performing a round of their four American Smooth routines at the studio where she taught. Patrick was again the perfect spectator, the perfect guest, besieged by suggestions that he should take lessons there. When they finally stood together – delightfully close, because the room was crowded – he turned his back to everyone else and rolled his eyes with such eloquence that Dmitri nearly laughed. Then he was, again, the friendly newcomer who made conversation with such ease that Dmitri said, when they were something close to alone, “You should have been a diplomat.”