Tuesday Teaser!

 

Today's teaser is from my novel Torn, Book One in the En Point series. This is the start of a new series featuring 3 aspiring ballet dancers who met as children in Tallinn, Estonia. You can purchase the novel at AMAZON or read for free with your KU subscription. 

Blurb

Kazimir Lebedez is a shocking anomaly in Russian politics. He’s an honest man who can’t be bought. Because he has no secrets. Until an extramarital love affair results in an illegitimate son he decides to hide in plain sight.

Raised in Estonia by his adopted grandmother, Misha Vergara has dreamed of dancing ballet since he was a toddler. He exhibits the natural grace and drive to succeed in the competitive world of classical dance.

Natalya Baranova—Talia—is convinced that she and her bestie, Misha, are destined to be the preeminent ballet couple someday. They work diligently on their craft which ultimately leads them to the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg, Russia.

Henri Minas, a new arrival, has all the qualifications to become a principal dancer, with a face and personality that beguiles and confuses Misha.

Torn between his best friend and Henri, Misha must come to terms with his growing feelings for another boy. In a region of the world where same-sex relationships are forbidden, will Misha follow his heart and choose love with Henri, or stay true to Talia and their shared dream of fame?

To make matter’s worse, all of Kazimir’s carefully crafted lies are about to unravel, as the half brother Misha doesn't know sets his sights on Talia. Now a high-ranking member of the government, can Kaz protect his reputation, and more importantly, his precious love child, without losing it all?

Teaser

We were seven when we first met. The Minas family had migrated to Tallinn from Paris and had opened a French patisserie in the center of town. Henri’s father did the baking, and his wife, a former nightclub singer from Ethiopia, helped with the sales. My first impression of the small boy with big green eyes and golden skin beside the beautiful woman behind the counter was curiosity. I didn’t have many friends, apart from Talia, and most of the kids in our neighborhood didn’t look like Henri or speak a foreign language. When he slid a macaron in my direction and urged me in French to take a bite of the pastel-colored cookie I’d never tried before, I was captivated. We continued to bond over freshly baked treats he’d push my way whenever I accompanied my grandmother to the store. Soon, these delicate Parisian cream sandwiches in assorted colors and flavors became a staple in our household.

When I invited Henri to observe a ballet class with me and Talia, he accepted. He watched in amazement, face plastered to the glass partition separating the students from the observers. Afterward, he pestered his parents to let him join. At first, they were reluctant, but his natural grace and athleticism seemed tailor-made for the classical art form, and with a little persuasion from Vanaema, my grandmother, his parents gave in and signed the forms.

Talia hadn’t been happy. Even back then, Henri had been the proverbial third wheel. Her selfishness was annoying, considering she’d always come first where I was concerned. When she’d realized Henri wasn’t going away, and I enjoyed his company, she did a complete about-face. Perhaps her mother had more to do with her change in attitude, not anything I said, but the tension simmering around her whenever he was around disappeared like a spring shower.

We were eight years old when our ballet teacher decided it was time to enroll us at the Vaganova Academy. My Onu Janek had somehow managed to get us ahead of the line of four hundred students trying out each year. We’d done well at the auditions and convinced the judges we had enough talent to proceed. Talia waved goodbye to us as she walked away with a group of girls while Henri and I were carted off to the boys section of the building.

This was the first of eight grueling years learning the ins and outs of our craft. Ballet was mentally and physically demanding, and never intended for the weak. It took obsession, determination, and a stellar work ethic to succeed.

Teachers were alternately cruel and kind. There are no miracles in ballet, one of the more memorable ones reminded me all the time. Principals only paid attention to those of us who had the right mindset. Complaining wasn’t tolerated. There were a hundred other boys who’d gladly grab our spot if we showed any signs of struggling.

Immediately after enrollment, we were subjected to a complete physical to make sure there were no hidden deformities that could impact our future career. Spinal cords were inspected meticulously. The slightest curve meant dismissal. Our weight was monitored daily.

Slim and graceful were the ultimate goal. Fat and ungainly—the kiss of death. Coffee and cigarettes helped to curb the appetite. We were constantly hungry because our bodies burned the calories at an alarming rate. Strong legs and soft arms were a must. Rock-hard abs, an absolute necessity to maintain the center of gravity and lift our partners above our heads.

We were in class from nine in the morning until five thirty in the afternoon. The only break was for lunch. Foreign students began each day with a Russian language class. If they wanted to study at the Vaganova, and eventually become part of the Mariinsky, they had to learn the language. It was nonnegotiable. Those of us who were fluent spent more time at the gym.

At the end of each year, there was an exam. We were judged for posture, flexibility, and basic movement. Anyone who failed was sent home. There were no second chances. Half of the student body dropped out in the first year. The questionable dancers lingered a year or two more, but eventually decided the price to pay wasn’t worth the toll on mind and body.