The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  “I think we’re on this list.”

  “And you are?”

  Fitz shoves a $50 bill into the man’s hands. “You can call me Ulysses S. Grant,” he tells the man before stepping around him.

  His hand finds mine and holds on for dear life. The bouncer stares straight ahead, but the barest hints of a smile perks up across the craggy features of his face. Viridian chirps happily and skips in behind us.

  The noise is booming, rising higher and higher in my chest with the painful throbbing base. I want to cover my ears as we ditch our coats and push in through the crowded mess of bodies and pulsating music. Legendary, for a Sunday night, is a madhouse. Spokane on a Sunday was deader than a cemetery, but New York has come alive with color and finesse and art in the form of the male physique in ways I’d never thought possible.

  Before we hit the dance floor, I notice a poster plastered on the wall.

  LEGENDARY LADIES.

  And one face in particular - an extremely girly, heavily made up young woman wearing gaudy diamond earrings and red hair three times as big as her head - stands out. Her name is Zinnia Zales.

  But I know her as Derek, no last name given.

  “Drinks anyone?” Viridian asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer before she presses forward into the crowd.

  “Come with me,” Fitz says.

  He takes my hand and pulls me through the bodies beating in rhythm with the music. A stage rises in front of us, currently empty, the spot lights dimmed. Already, I’m nervous. I’m sweating, even. Viridian probably isn’t going to be pleased with her clothes when they’re returned.

  Fitz releases me as we stop in front of the stage. He checks his watch and sends a text quickly on his phone. I fidget like a toddler.

  “What’s going to happen?” I say.

  “An entirely different kind of art,” he says in reply.

  “Will he be wearing clothes?”

  “Zinnia Zales wouldn’t dream of leaving the house anything less than perfectly dressed,” Fitz says with a snort.

  Before I can ask any further questions, the thumping music stops and all eyes turn to the stage. The room goes quiet with anticipation and a shiver races up my spine as the electricity in the room changes. No longer is it infectious. Now, the room has gone still with desire.

  “Hello, boys,” a disembodied voice, high pitched and girly, announces from the darkness. “Zinnia is home.”

  The room goes wild with cheers, the hoard of people crushing toward the stage for the show about to begin. I fear being taken away by the swarm of bodies but feel Fitz’s arm around my waist keeping me in place.

  “Welcome to the stage Legendary’s very own Queen of Pop, Zinnia Zales!” the speakers announce, and the crowd erupts into applause and whooping. Fitz and I join in. It’s hard not to be caught up in the infectious joy of the club.

  A pop-dance song that I vaguely remember begins playing over the speakers, and onto the stage struts Zinnia Zales, dressed to the nines. If I hadn’t known it was Derek under all that makeup and what I assumed to be padding, I never would have guessed the glamorous figure parading across the stage in skyscraper heels is a man. Zinnia begins to lip-sync to the song, dramatically flipping her mountain of hair back and forth as she makes her way across the stage, proudly displaying her never-ending legs through a dangerously high slit in the side of her hot pink dress. Wow, I think. I wish I could look that good in that dress and those heels.

  With a theatrical spin, she grabs a wooden chair from the side of the stage and drags it toward the center, managing to look graceful even with this simple movement. She stalks the stage, examining the crowd crammed against the side in front of her, stroking her face with a sparkling talon-like finger. While some of the crowd begs for her attention, I shrink into Fitz’s arm. I’m not quite ready to be dragged into yet another embarrassing public performance.

  Unfortunately, my awkwardness must be an irresistible beacon to Zinnia. She points directly at me then motions with a devilish smile for me to come on stage. I shake my head wildly. There is no way I am ever going on that stage. The crowd around me notices my apprehension and shouts for me to go up. I want to run away in distress, but I’m too tightly packed into the crowd to move.

  “Not today, darling!” Fitz shouts with a grin.

  “Ruining my night, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Zinnia throws her head back and laughs.

  His arm tightens protectively around me and I can’t resist the temptation to lean into his embrace. Zinnia looks disappointed but quickly moves onto another victim; a handsome and all too willing young man nearby who leaps with joy once on the stage. I cheer with the crowd; partially because I’m having so much fun and partially because I’m grateful that he took my place on the chair. A familiar figure nudges me and hands me a tall glass full of something that seems to glow in the dark.

  “Bottoms up, my friends!” Viridian shouts from my side, and the three of us toast our drinks. All memories of my first two-glass induced hangover dissipate as I take a large gulp of the mysterious, fruity concoction. I’m suddenly a huge fan of whatever this is, as well.

  We watch with glee as Zinnia runs her hands up and down her victim’s torso, her wide mouthed expression letting everyone know just what she’s thinking. She pulls a metal hip flask from the inside of her thigh, opens it and pours the liquid inside all over the man’s face. This less than subtle action sends the crowd wild, but it’s Zinnia’s leg kick over the man’s head that brings the house down.

  As the music comes to an end, she jumps onto the man’s lap and drapes herself across him. The cheering is accompanied by clapping and stomping. I can barely hear myself think as Zinnia takes her final bow, but not before planting a long kiss on her participant’s lips, leaving his face sticky and red with lipstick.

  “Bravo!” Fitz screams over the noise as Zinnia makes her exit, milking the crowd’s reaction for all it’s worth. “What did you think of that?” He asks.

  “That was great!” I yell back. “Derek looked amazing!”

  I go to take another sip of my drink but notice that my glass is empty. When did that happen? It’s blisteringly hot in this club, and with all these bodies brushing past me, I’m all too aware of how sweaty things have become.

  “Time for refills,” Viridian announces, finishing her own drink in one gulp.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” I tell her. I desperately need to cool down. “Where is it?”

  “It’s by the bar,” Fitz replies. “I’ll show you.”

  He takes my wrist again and leads me through the never-ending maze of dancing bodies until we reach the doors to the toilets. We separate and I quickly do my business, enjoying the cool air in the bathroom and listening in on the gossiping women swapping makeup tips and discussing the evening’s entertainment (Zinnia Zales was sensational, Derek would be glad to know).

  I look in the mirror, glad to see that my makeup has not sweated off my face and my hair is still in place, if a little less neat. The thing I notice that surprises me is the irrepressible smile on my face. I genuinely feel happy right now, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel welcome somewhere. Granted, I’m still massively out of place amongst the worlds of Fitz’s nude art and Derek’s drag extravaganza, and I’m sure they enjoy dragging me into public performances of supreme awkwardness a little too much, but I’m still wanted here. Luck has been good to me.

  I exit the restroom and see Fitz waiting for me. He has a look on his face I recognize from our first encounter; wide eyes, open mouth and exuding complete vulnerability. His blazer is open, revealing the tattoos interlaced over his chest and down his stomach over strong muscle. My eyes are drawn to a pair of swallow silhouettes on his collarbones. There’s something written on his abdomen, but I can’t quite make it out.

  “Hey,” I mumble.

  The tension has grown unbearable all of a sudden. As he approaches me, it only increases.

  Surprisingly, the corridor leading to
the bathrooms is empty besides a couple making out in the corner and us. The other two, men with bulky arms and tight shirts, have their hands wrapped in the others’ hair. It leaves Fitz and me alone.

  The corridor is narrow and the beats on the floor thump once again. My heart races with the rhythm, thump thump thump. I take a deep breath and blink. When I open my eyes, he’s standing inches away from me, staring down into my eyes from his great height.

  He puts one hand on the wall beside my head and leans over, mouth slightly agape. I brace myself for a kiss. Instead, his other hand lifts up to brush aside a stray strand of mousy hair that had fallen over my shoulders. It doesn’t stop me from letting out a tiny gasp.

  “All better,” he murmurs with a smile.

  His mouth is so close to mine, his eyes still glued on mine. I have never been kissed in my life, not once, except for my grandmother smacking her lips against mine in photos before she kicked the bucket. My mother never got a chance to give me a kiss, lying dead on the operating table as infant me cried and cried in the doctor’s arms. And my father would never think of giving me even a second glance of compassion.

  A lock of hair flops over into his face. He purses his lips and blows it out of his eyes with the barest hints of a smirk.

  At the same moment, a feeling I’ve never felt before rises low in my belly. The feeling of... lust? Sexual excitement? Forbidden desire?

  Is it forbidden, though?

  We stay like that for several moments before he pulls back. I almost melt into a puddle there on the tiled floor. He notices my disappointment - it couldn’t be more evident - and grins.

  “Come on,” he says. “Before V sends out the rescue team.”

  He takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. I have no idea what’s going on between us and it’s making me dizzy. Does he want to kiss me or is he just messing around? I wouldn’t put it past him to stage this as another performance for his dedicated fans without my knowledge. Viridian’s voice enters my head, repeating the conversation we had earlier in the day. She talked of Fitz pitying me and how I was most certainly not his usual type, but that he was also a good man. He wouldn’t screw with me like that, would he? We may still practically be strangers to one another but my gut told me he wouldn’t do something so heartless. I also remember the look in his eyes, and his explanation for his work.

  “I’m not acting... Think of it as a lifelong self-portrait, always in progress.”

  His words ring in my mind as we move back toward Viridian, who is now joined by an extremely happy Zinnia. They both smirk as Fitz pulls out a chair for me. I don’t know if either of them notice his fingers trailing across my thigh underneath the table, in an almost ticklish manner, but I definitely do.

  CHAPTER 9.

  The four of us have moved onto drinking something called a “woo woo,” which I also highly approve of. There’s still a tiny voice in the back of my head reminding me of just what alcohol is capable of, and how it can destroy hearts and minds and stomachs, but that voice no longer dominates me in the way it used to.

  Restraint, moderation, I think. He has no power of over you anymore.

  I pause, think some more.

  Maybe he never did.

  Zinnia’s incredibly long nails tap rhythmically across the table. While she still looks perfectly put together, I can tell the heat of the club is getting to her. None of us are coping too well, although Fitz seems okay. Maybe the technique of not wearing many clothes has its advantages.

  “God, look at that bitch.” She directs a talon toward the stage, where another performer, this one in gaudy gold hot pants and a Rapunzel-style braided wig, keeps several hula-hoops spinning to the beat of a rather obscene dance song.

  “Another rival of yours?” Viridian asks. “You’ve got a longer enemies list than Nixon. Is your apartment the Watergate now?”

  “She just thinks she’s so special and unique because she occasionally dresses androgynously and can keep a ring around her for a few minutes. The wig is just tacky, too. I bet you a thousand dollars that it’s entirely synthetic.”

  “As if you have a thousand dollars,” Fitz snorted. His hand continues to find its way to my leg when he thinks nobody is paying attention. I keep a straight face and remain stone-faced as he strokes and tickles my thigh through the cheap fabric I picked up in a thrift store for a few dollars.

  “Shut up, trust fund boy,” Zinnia fires back. “I have worked hard to maintain my craft and I’m not going to let some Cirque du Soleil reject by way of Disney snatch the spotlight. I cannot take another California moment.”

  Fitz and Viridian groan loudly, but I remain confused.

  “Dare I even ask what a California moment is?” I say. Viridian does not look happy.

  “Zales, my sweet darling,” she moans. “You are far too happy and far too sober to tell this story right now. Please leave it for another day.”

  “So says the painter without a dramatic back story and a TV credit. Gather round, Spokane. I have a glamorous tale to tell.”

  Viridian rolls her eyes. “Not this again.”

  Zinnia holds up a finger accusingly. “Yes, this again. It’s a story that has to be told.”

  “And all of New York already knows it,” Viridian whines.

  “Spokane here doesn’t.”

  I frown. “I have a name, you know.”

  The uber-glitzy woman in front of me sighs. “Fine. Marina here doesn’t know the story. And the story is one of heartbreak and disgust and betrayal.”

  “She came in second in a reality show for drag queens,” Viridian says nonchalantly. “And the sky is blue and chickens go cock-a-doodle-doo. Give me a fucking break.”

  Zinnia looks offended, her intricately painted eyebrows rising in disgust. “Thanks for spoiling it.” She tosses her hair back off her shoulder and adds, “Seriously, though, that bitch that won is a talentless hack who won because she fucked the producer or something.”

  “Or she was better than you,” Viridian mutters.

  Playfully, or so it seems, Zinnia smacks Viridian on the shoulder. Viridian snorts into her martini, splattering the contents across her face. She grimaces and waves her hand in the air for the waiter.

  “Why do you dress up like a woman?” The question bubbles forth before I have a chance to stop myself. I slap my hand over my mouth, but the blossoming fire consumes my face. I know it’s visible against my pale skin even in the dim light of the bar.

  Eyes turn on me and, for a moment, I wonder if I’ve said something to get my ass kicked out onto the street.

  “I mean, I’ve never met a drag queen before,” I admit. “To be honest I’ve never seen drag queens outside of that one movie I saw late at night when my dad went to sleep. I think Patrick Swayze was in it.”

  Zinnia smiles knowingly. “Sweetie, we all do it for our own reasons. For me, it was because I am too fabulous to live my life as a boring man, not when I can put on women’s clothes and strut around in high heels and shake my ass for money.”

  “Drag is an art form,” Fitz says. “Or so I try to convince Derek just about every day.”

  “You’re the best half-brother ever,” Zinnia says. “Always trying to convince me that I’m artistic even when I’m not.”

  “Derek and Fitz share a common mother,” Viridian whispers in my ear. “Never ask about their mother, though. Fitz gets all rage-y when you mention her name.”

  As has become common, my eyes widen a bit in surprise, but this time the surprise is mixed with the excitement of the unknown. I’m curious, and we all know that curiosity killed the cat. It’s a good thing I’m not a cat, then.

  The waiter brings around a fresh round of drinks. We sip in silence. I can feel myself getting more and more tired and my head more light and airy by the moment.

  I think Fitz notices as my head slouches against my shoulder. I grin at him. A moment later, I remember our moment outside the bathrooms. Involuntarily, my fingers begin to twirl around a lock of
fallen hair resting against my cheek.

  Fitz looks down at his lap and my ego deflates like a popped balloon. “I didn’t realize how late it was,” he tells us. “I think it’s time we start heading toward the apartment, don’t you think, Marina? You’re looking a little sleepy.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glance of his cell phone screen. It’s almost 3 AM. Time flew by and I didn’t notice for the first time in as long as I can remember. It’s a veritable miracle as far as I’m concerned.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” I murmur.

  Zinnia leans forward and smacks her lips against my cheek. The sticky feel of gloss remains. With the alcohol floating through my bloodstream, all I do is giggle and flush an even deeper shade of red.

  “Toodles, my dears,” Zinnia says with a wave before bouncing off with a flounce in her step. Her red hair is still swinging to and fro as she disappears back into the crowd. The people swallow her whole with open arms and excitement.

  Viridian frowns with disappointment. “But the night has just begun! God, Fitz, you’re teaching the poor girl to be a lightweight party pooper. We’re supposed to getting wasted and having fun and acting our age, not going to bed early.”

  “And you don’t have an interview with the Village Gazette at 10 AM,” Fitz says.

  With a flourish, Viridian pouts. “You disappoint me.”

  Fitz gives her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Whatever, Prince Charming,” Viridian says. “Take care of sleeping beauty over there. She’s already beginning to doze off.”

  She’s right. My eyes are slouching lower and lower. Even seated, I feel myself leaning further and further over under the influence of alcohol and exhaustion. My Prince Charming wraps his arms around my shoulders and helps me down, his hair mingling with my own as our skin touches and warms each other. The temperature seems to rise, or maybe it’s just me making up imaginary fingers of tension seeping from his body into mine.