by Alexa Land
I grinned and said, “Absolutely. I’ll text you the address. Oh, and just so you know, I want your bill to come to me, not Dare. He’s the guy who runs the troupe, and that was his desk in the photo.”
“Sure. I’ll need his permission to access his financial records, obviously, but I have no problem billing you instead of him.”
After we disconnected, I sent the address to Mike and a heads-up to Dare. Then I got to work around the office. I washed out the scary mug and the ancient coffee pot in the corner and brewed a fresh pot before starting on the papers.
I’d sorted most of the bills and receipts into tidy piles by the time Dare and Skye returned about half an hour later, accompanied by Mike Dombruso. I could never quite figure Mike out. I’d heard people refer to him as Clark Kent, and that was dead-on. He wore chunky, black-framed glasses, slicked down his thick, black hair, and dressed in drab suits and ties, but underneath all of that, he was tall and muscular with a face like a movie star. He should have had all the confidence in the world, but instead, he was shy and a bit awkward, as if he was totally unaware of how ridiculously hot he was.
Mike and I shook hands, and then I said, “There’s fresh coffee, gentlemen. If you need me, I’ll be on the roof.”
Dare said, “Thanks for doing this, Quinn, but I’ll pay the bill. Skye and I have some money now, so we can afford it.”
I scooped up my messenger bag and headed for the door as I said, “No way. I really want to give something back, after all you’ve done for me. Be sure to talk to Mike about that new income, by the way. Maybe he can save you from paying a shitload of taxes.”
Skye called after me, “You’re awesome, Quinn. Especially because you’re dressed like a giant burrito.” I grinned at that.
When I reached the roof, I curled up on one of the lounge chairs with the blanket still around me and pulled my phone from the pocket of my hoodie. Then I accessed my photos and changed my screen saver to a picture I’d taken of Duke the night we baked cookies together. I stared at it for a long time, knowing I should call him, but unsure of what to say. It had been relatively easy to discuss my fears with Dare, because there was no pressure there. But what if I said the wrong thing when I spoke to Duke and made everything worse?
I was still clutching my phone when Haley showed up a few minutes later and exclaimed, “Hey! I’m glad you’re early too, Quinn. I have some ideas for the finale. Can I teach you a new sequence before Dare and the rest of the guys join us? It’ll be easier to show them what I have in mind, instead of explaining it.”
I took a last look at Duke’s picture, and then I put my phone away and said, “Sure. Are we giving up on that toss and catch?”
“Actually, I’m going to pitch the idea of going another way entirely,” he said as he pulled on a stretchy, black headband, which held his short dreads back from his face. “I realized what was missing, not only in the ending, but the whole production. We’ve been trying to wow the audience by being technically perfect and executing a lot of showy jumps and combinations. But we should be focusing on telling a story. Most of it’s already there in the choreography. Two characters meet, are torn apart, and find each other again. But we need to dial it up. There’s no sex or passion. When your character and mine come together at the end, we need to make love on that stage!”
“That better not be literal.”
“No, we’re not going to literally fuck in front of a live audience. But we’re going to come damn close.”
I muttered, “I’m so glad I invited my mom and dad to this.”
“If my family can handle it, so can yours. Although I will say, my mama’s a little skeptical about the alterations I’m making to our outfits.”
He pulled a tiny scrap of white fabric from his backpack, and I asked, “What is that, an eyepatch?”
“It’s your costume.”
I sighed and said, “This day just keeps getting better and better.”
Chapter Eight
“Dude, I still can’t believe you invited your dad to a place like this.”
I tossed back my drink, turned to my nephew, and yelled over the pulsating dance music, “Don’t start, Max. You know this is a perfectly respectable bar.”
“It’s called Thrust.”
“So what?”
“There are two…no wait, three couples dry-humping on the dance floor.”
“They’re just dancing. Mostly.” I chewed my lip for a moment, then said, “Maybe we should have chaperoned Dad’s trip to the restroom. Do you think there are people fucking back there?”
“You tell me. You work here.”
I thought about it and answered my own question with, “Probably not. It’s barely seven-thirty.”
“As if there’s some rule in San Francisco’s gay community that you can’t fuck strangers in public restrooms before ten p.m.?”
“The club’s still half-empty, and a lot of these people are tourists. I don’t think the hookups really get going until later.”
Max took a sip from his beer bottle and leaned in so I could hear him. “Do you want me to get your dad out of here before your shift starts? I mean, you don’t really want him to see you shaking your ass on a pedestal while wearing next to nothing, right?” He gestured at one of the empty platforms that lined the big dance floor. The go-go dancers didn’t start until eight.
“I should have brought him in on my night off. I want Dad to see the other go-go boys performing so he’ll realize it’s not sleazy, but you’re right that I really don’t want to get up there and dance in front of him, especially in tonight’s outfit. Although, hey, guess what? It turns out I’ll be wearing even less when my troupe performs in a few weeks, and the entire family’s going to be there for that one.” I sighed and signaled the red-haired bartender for another round.
“Seriously?” I nodded, and Max said, “You’re the lead dancer, and those guys are your friends. Don’t you get a vote on what you wear?”
“I do, but I actually like the costumes and the new direction we’re taking. The show needed to be shaken up a bit. It was too safe before, too predictable. My only concern is that Dad’s not going to get it, that he’ll see sleaze instead of art.”
“He’s not going to do that. Your parents are super chill.”
“They have their limits, though. Plus, my brothers will be there. How do you think skimpy costumes and strong sexual themes will go over with your dad?”
“Oh man.” Max frowned and tossed back the rest of his beer.
“Exactly.”
“I thought it was just going to be ballet, but now all of a sudden, it’s become super awkward. Maybe you should tell our family not to come to the show.”
“If I do that, Dad will never believe this dance troupe is the real deal. He’ll just think I’m wasting my life and my ‘gift’ on something I’m ashamed of. And I’m really not ashamed of it, Max. I just need Dad to understand what it is we’re trying to do. But he might not, just like he really doesn’t get this.” I waved my arm to encompass the club. “He’s being a good sport and pretending to enjoy himself, but his smile seems a bit forced, don’t you think?”
Max traded his empty beer bottle for a full one and thanked the bartender before turning back to me. “I think you’re defensive and reading a lot in.”
I looked around and said, “Does it seem like he’s been in the restroom a long time? Maybe we should check on him.”
“Are you proposing we send out a search party? He’s a grown man, and he can find his way back from the toilet.”
I chewed my lip, then swapped out my empty glass for the newly minted tequila sunrise on the bar and said, “You’re right. So, before he gets back, tell me how it went with Yoshi yesterday.”
“Dude, what happened with that? I got there and found out you bolted after like, a minute.”
“Turns out, tattoos and Quinn are a bad combination. Did you show Yoshi your artwork?”
“Yeah. He invited me to take a seat and wait for
you. We both figured you’d come back. Then he noticed the sketchbook and asked to see it. He said nice things about my drawings.” Max grinned embarrassedly.
“That’s awesome! Did you tell him you wanted to apprentice with him?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t do it. I mean, he’s Yoshiro freaking Miyazaki! He’s fucking hot, by the way! Holy shit, is he hot! And nice. And insanely talented! Why the hell would someone at his level waste his time with a total novice?”
“Because you’re talented too and would be an amazing tattoo artist.”
“Well, I chickened out, so I blew my shot.”
“Not necessarily.”
Max glanced over my shoulder and said, “Here comes your dad. Turns out he found his way back from the restroom all on his own. We should probably change the subject, since you think he’d totally freak out about his grown-ass son getting a tattoo.”
“I explained this to you, Max, more than once.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s basically you thumbing your nose at the major ballet companies and rejecting their uptight, bourgeoisie ways, but you don’t want your dad to know, because it’ll crush his dreams of you becoming the next…insert the name of a famous ballet dancer, because I sure as hell can’t think of one.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t say any of that.”
“I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the basic gist of it.” Max leaned around me and said, “Hi, Grandpop. Were you handing out rubbers in the men’s room? Quinn was worried about you.”
My father grinned and signaled to the bartender as he sat on the stool beside me. “No, although I was glad to see a condom dispenser in there. I stopped to talk to a young man who recognized me.”
I asked, “Did you let him believe you were George Takei?”
Dad chuckled at that and said, “He recognized me because I treated him when he was a child. He spent several months in the hospital when he was six years old. Sweet kid. He’s studying medicine now. There he is.”
He waved at a dark-haired guy across the room named Sergei, who waved and smiled at my dad before glancing at me and frowning. “Nice?” I said. “He works here as a go-go dancer and he’s an arrogant, rude, spotlight-hogging diva.”
“You should make an effort to get along with him, Quinn,” my dad said. “He’s a good person.”
“I get along with everyone, except for obnoxious people who hate me for absolutely no reason.” I gestured at Sergei, and his frown deepened.
“He’s had a rough life,” my father said. “Try to be his friend. I think he might surprise you.”
“Yeah, I somehow doubt that.” Dad ordered a cup of coffee from the bartender, which suggested he was planning to stick around a while, and I said, “I start work in less than half an hour, and I’m going to need to get ready soon. You and Max probably want to get home, so….”
“I haven’t even seen you dance yet,” Dad said.
Without warning, Max exclaimed, “Mikhail Baryshnikov!” When I shot him a look, he said, “I finally remembered the name of a famous ballet dancer. It was bugging me.”
I fought back a sigh, then turned to my father and said, “Do you really want to stick around for this? I mean, isn’t it kind of embarrassing?”
“Why would it be embarrassing? You’ve explained to me that this is all perfectly wholesome. You also said you’re proud to be a go-go dancer, and I’m here to show you I support you in your chosen line of work.” My father had the world’s best poker face, and he held my gaze unflinchingly.
“That’s not what you’re doing,” I said. “You’re sticking around because you want me to admit I’m uncomfortable with you watching me perform. That in turn must mean I’m ashamed of what I do, right? I mean, if I wasn’t ashamed, what difference would it make if my dad was in the audience?”
“I never said any of that. But if you feel uncomfortable with me being here, maybe you should examine which aspects of this job you don’t want me to see, and ask yourself why.”
Just then, a huge, drunk guy with spiky blond hair pushed in between my dad and me and slurred, “I know you, don’t I? We fucked last month, right? You had some weird name. Clint? Cord? I don’t remember it, but I remember that sweet little ass.”
Oh God. I’d let him take me home five or six weeks ago, though it felt like a lifetime. I was mortified that this was happening in front of my dad, but I kept my voice level as I slid off the barstool and said, “You’re thinking of someone else, and you’re clearly drunk. You should probably call a cab and head home.”
“Don’t you remember me? My name’s Warren. You sucked my cock so good, and then you let me fuck you like, three times. Your ass was so fuckin’ sweet.” He grinned at me lewdly. What the hell had I been thinking with this guy?
“I have to go to work, and you need to go home and sober up, Warren.” I stepped around him and told my dad, “Stay if you want to, it’s your call. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
With that, I turned and fled. When I reached the door to the employee dressing room, I looked back over my shoulder and was relieved to see Warren had wandered off toward the dance floor. The very last thing I needed was some drunk-ass one-night stand discussing me with my dad and Max.
When I reached my locker, I rested my forehead against the cool, red metal and sighed. What had I been thinking, bringing my dad to the club? And why hadn’t I considered the possibility of running into men I’d slept with while on this little field trip? I used to go home with a different guy every night of the week. Of course the club was going to be littered with them!
I was still in that position when Sergei came into the dressing room a minute later. I straightened up and dialed the combination on my padlock, and as he peeled off his T-shirt, he muttered, “Fucking homewrecker.”
I turned to look at him and said, “Excuse me?”
His ice blue eyes flashed with anger, and his muscles flexed when his hands tightened into fists. “I saw you out there with Doctor Takahashi,” he growled. “He has a wife and a family, you slut! But I suppose that doesn’t matter to a gold-digging little twink like you.”
“Dude, gross! That’s my dad, not my date!”
Sergei rolled his eyes. “Oh, obviously. How did I miss the strong family resemblance?”
“I was adopted, you dick! We’ve been working together for six months. Do you seriously not know my last name is Takahashi?”
His bravado faltered a bit, and he said, “It is?”
“Fuck you, Sergei, for always being mean to me, for thinking I was dating a married man, and for not even bothering to know my last name!”
He crossed his big arms over his chest and said, “You probably don’t know mine, either.”
“It’s Reznik!”
“Well, congratulations,” he said. “You’re obviously a saint among men for knowing that! Also, why the hell would you bring your father to a place like this? Are you crazy?”
“Yeah, apparently I am. I was out of my damn mind for thinking I could make him understand why I like this job. He’ll never get it, just like he’ll never get why I turned down that position with the San Francisco Ballet.”
Sergei stared at me like I was the stupidest person he’d ever met. “You turned down the San Francisco Ballet for this?”
“No! I didn’t turn it down for this! I turned it down because I didn’t want the fucking job! Why the hell am I even explaining this to you?” I grabbed my messenger bag, a hat, and a pair of boots out of my locker and stormed into the adjoining employees-only restroom, just to put some distance between myself and Sergei.
As I changed out of my street clothes and into a jock strap and a tight pair of pink satin shorts, I took a few deep breaths. I really needed to get it together. I’d been way too emotional all day, and I missed Duke, but I’d held off on calling him after my awkward departure that morning.
The theme at the club that night was ‘Cowboy Up’, and I knit my brows as I adjusted my ankle brace, then stuffed my feet into
a pair of pink cowboy boots. When I’d first started working at Thrust, we all wore shorts of the same color, which varied depending on the night of the week. But when a go-go dancer named Preston got promoted to manager a few months back, he’d decided to get creative.
I usually had a lot of fun with the themes, but I just couldn’t muster any enthusiasm that evening, and I sighed at my reflection as I plunked my white cowboy hat onto my head. The last piece of my ensemble was an oversized belt buckle. I had a few to choose from, most of which I really wasn’t going to wear in front of my dad, including the one with a cowboy riding a mechanical bull that looked like a big dick. I ended up going with my Texas-shaped, rainbow-striped buckle and threaded it onto my wide, white belt. It rested about six inches below my belly button in those low-slung shorts.
I applied just a little eyeliner, mascara, and tinted lip gloss, then brushed iridescent body glitter onto a few strategic locations before turning my attention to my pseudo-tattoo. Ugh. It was nowhere near healed, and smothering it in makeup probably wasn’t the best thing for it, but the squiggle had to go. I dabbed on concealer until it disappeared, then stepped back and stood on my toes to see how it looked in the mirror above the sink. Mission accomplished.
Sergei was still getting dressed when I went back into the locker room. His cowboy hat, boots, and shorts were all black. He thought he was such a badass with his muscles and tattoos. I ignored him as I crammed my clothes into my locker, then returned to the club.
Max and my dad were right where I’d left them. My nephew grinned when he saw me and said, “That’s a lot of look, bro.”
“It’s western night. There are cocktails to match. You should actually try the Ride Me Cowboy. Jimmy the bartender invented it, and it’s damn good.”
Max asked, “Are all the go-go cowboys wearing pink?”
“No, they’re wearing whatever they want. I happen to like pink.”
When I turned toward my dad, he frowned a little and asked, “When did you pierce your nipples?”
Shit. I’d totally forgotten about them. “Four years ago,” I admitted.