Shit, it was ridiculous how much stories were often sensationalized and how deep you had to plow in to find out the truth. From doing a lot of digging around and wading through the bullshit, I eventually discovered the consensus was Clara had gotten into the grips of addiction, and it made her act recklessly. There were a lot of other reports suggesting some terrible things. There were countless pictures and gossip about her sleeping with just about every man who was anybody in New York City, but I didn’t know how much of it I believed until I clicked the Image button on my screen and pictures started popping up like crazy. Clara on the arm of some up-and-coming movie star standing on the red carpet. Clara perfectly coiffed and made-up beaming as she looked up at the pro football player who appeared capable of easily snapping her in two. I clicked through photo after photo and noticed she was seldom seen with the same man twice. Instead, it appeared she flitted from man to man like a bee to a flower.
Whoa.
A double click brought the next photo up in all its glory. Or perhaps gory might better describe what I was seeing. The beauty looked a bit beastly, her eyes wild, her hair disheveled, and her dress hiked up to her ass as she was caught outside some skyscraper on Central Park West bending over and relieving herself of whatever she’d put into her body, her “date” of the evening conveniently out of the frame except for the back of his head as he walked away.
Okay, the stories about wild parties and even wilder sex, I might be able to buy, even some drug and alcohol abuse wasn’t beyond belief, but I’d doubted the claims of Clara hanging with some notorious mob-related people. I thought it was all blown out of proportion because of who she was, and how famous she was becoming back then. Doubted the validity until another swipe of my finger brought the proof into stark relief.
It appeared the socialite had traded her cadre of men for a slew of men wearing dark suits, stern, suspicious expressions, and bulges beneath their armpits that suggested they were carrying. These men weren’t even interested in Clara… they appeared to be focused on the sole man who had begun to appear in every single photograph.
Seeing Clara in the arms of the notorious Nikolai Kosloff in front of the theater where she was the principal dancer, told me a totally different story. Perhaps one I’d not wished to acknowledge.
Had Clara gotten in bed with the Russian mafia?
Even with the evidence staring up at me from the screen, to me, it didn’t seem reason enough to keep her away from the ballet forever.
A final photo of Clara with her arm wrapped around the waist of a petite older woman reminded me of what she’d claimed. Damn… if the look on the face in the aged yet still beautiful face in the photo was any indication, then I’d been wrong. Pain was hiding beneath the small smile she was giving her granddaughter. Clara might not be lying about her grandmother needing her to the point dancing had been set aside for love of family.
It was a fucking shame, but it was something I’d find easier to wrap my mind around rather than Clara allowing herself to be used and abused by some asshole member of the bratva until she was as heartless as they were. Hell, if what I’d read was even close to the truth, forget dancing, the former ballerina was lucky to still be breathing.
A loud bang had my blood pressure skyrocketing and my head shooting up. Grateful to see nothing more threatening than a young woman righting a metal folding chair that had fallen over, I set questions about Clara aside and got back to work.
“Okay, everyone,” I called out to the prospective dancers in front of me. “Yuri will be here soon enough to explain the process of the audition to you, but until he gets here, it would be to your benefit if you spend your time stretching and warming up rather than standing around.” When the majority simply looked around at each other, I shook my head. “Might I suggest you remember the moment you stepped onto the stage your audition began. You’re dancing against each other as well as trying to impress me enough to be one of the few — the very few — I’ll keep in the lineup. When you’re ready, spread out across the stage, and we can start and go from there…”
My words trailed off as I spotted a familiar figure entering the theater. One whom I really hadn’t expected to see moving across the room.
Clara Simyoneva — she had actually come.
My heart thundered in my chest, and I had to gulp down a thick ball of emotion lodged in my throat. I shouldn’t feel the way I did. I really shouldn’t, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. There was something about this delicate yet strong blonde beauty that had me feeling a little unstable, which was not only unprofessional but really inappropriate. I needed to stop it now, before it got in the way of her potentially joining our theater. If we could land her, I knew things would get even better for us.
Volkov Ballet would climb yet another rung up the ladder of the best companies in the country.
In the end, I forced myself to drag my eyes away and looked down at the clipboard in front of me. The names might as well have been written in invisible ink as I could only see the name Clara that had somehow been scrawled several times in the margins.
Jesus, I really was a bit unhinged.
Clearing my throat, I sat up straighter, wanting to keep my professional position of power.
“Hello there,” Yuri called out in an overly friendly tone of voice, which really grated on me. My brother would go in like this, all nice, white teeth flashing in a huge smile, then his attitude would turn as soon as people relaxed and let down their guard. Why couldn’t he be charming all the damn time? It sure as hell would make my life easier. “I’m Yuri Volkov, your choreographer. Let’s talk through what’s going to happen today.”
As Yuri explained, I allowed my eyes to glance over to the theater members we currently had to see they were huddling together, whispering over each other. I had no doubt they were talking about Clara since they’d been silent and acting bored until she’d entered the theater. Were they saying nice things about her? Talking about her amazing skill as a dancer? Or were they gossiping about her past?
My guess was they were talking shit and waiting for the spectacle about to begin.
After the prospective dancers had started warming up and preparing to learn whatever routine he’d decided on, Yuri came to sit with me in the center of the theater, far enough away from the stage to make watching easier and to remain in a bit of shadow as if that might help a hopeful ballerina feel less stress than staring into the face of those who held her future in their hands. Even before he slid into the seat, I could see he’d already dropped the smile, anger radiating from his face instead. I already had an idea of what it might be about.
“What the hell is Clara Simyoneva doing here?” he hissed into my ear. “Do you know who she is? Do you really think we need someone like that as part of our theater? Are you a fucking idiot?”
“Yuri,” I said as coolly as possible. “That stuff with her past happened years ago. And nothing was exactly proven. There was lots of innuendo, tons of gossip, but nothing that proved she was truly guilty of having anything to do with what happened. So, we don’t even know if she’s even guilty of a single thing, and—”
“She’s definitely guilty of dating fucking Kosloff,” he hissed.
I slid him a glance, wanting to tell him to grow the fuck up and stop whining like a baby, but restrained myself. There was no need to have this end with us yelling in one another’s faces in front of our dancers.