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“Can’t say I know it—very—earthy.”
“Yep, covers the pot smell well—shh—there’s Dusty,” Roxi cut herself off. “He’s one of the best. Good in bed, too.”
Dusty strutted on stage to “Real Men” in a pair of loose black slacks, black dress shirt buttoned all the way to the top, and paisley suspenders dangling at his thighs; his short dark hair was blown into a stylish part. His age was hard to place—he could’ve been 25 just as easily as 35. Dusty circled the stage as if it were a runway, stopping to pose with one hand in a pocket, only to hop off and saunter through the audience patting backs and kissing hands.
“He’s very convincing,” Gia said, taking a sip of the coffee they’d ordered when they walked in. It was weak. And bitter. Not unlike how she felt being in a bar for the first time in over a month.
Why had she let this happen?
Who was she kidding? Gia knew exactly why it happened: Roxi Delgado. And her espresso-colored eyes.
“Just wait, he’s hilarious.” Roxi smiled as Dusty cat-walked his way back to the stage.
“Well, good evening, theybies and themtlepeople! I’m Dusty and I’ll be your host with the most as some of Palm Springs’ best show you their goods. And by goods, you know I mean Tupperware and Glassy Babies, right? Just kidding! We don’t do any door-to-door selling around here. Just plain, old fashioned cross-dressing with a side of booze and bound boobs.” Dusty grabbed the shiny silver mic from its stand and leaned against a three-legged barstool. His voice was raspy, body relaxed. Under a single spotlight, he looked right at home. “How many first-timers we got here? Come on, don’t be shy. Who’s new to our little variety hour? This is an inclusive event where—”
“Raise your hand,” Roxi insisted, grabbing Gia’s wrist. “Raise your hand!”
“No!” Gia growled through gritted teeth.
“Do it.”
“No!” Gia used her newfound strength to resist as Roxi tried to lift her hand.
“Okay, Roxi,” Dusty intervened from stage. “I don’t know what you’re doing to that poor person, but stop. There’s such a thing as consent, darling. Look, you’ve broken their shoulder!”
“Lo siento, Dusty. Sorry. Go on.” Roxi eyed her mug with intent—he’d caught her.
“I don’t know that I can, after that display, without finding out more about your friend. What’s your name?”
“Gia.”
The room fell silent as Gia’s worst nightmare played out in front of her. Her gut scolded her for not listening—she shouldn’t be in a bar. Especially a gay bar. She’d promised herself no alcohol, no cigarettes, and no hook-ups. Deprivation in the name of the straight and narrow.
“That’s a lovely name. Welcome, Gia. Now’s the point in the show where I usually tell you about my latest break-up and how my girlfriend left me for a drag queen, which I find exceptionally ironic. It’s true, for what it’s worth. But instead—how about we play a game?”
Gia shook her head no. She absolutely didn’t want to play a game.
“No? Okay, friend. I get it. There’s too many people playing games anyway. We may as well be in L.A. for all the bullshit that happens in our gay little township. How about this? You just sit back and enjoy the show. Don’t let anyone make you do something you don’t wanna do. Deal? Good. Moving on—”
“I’ve gotta go,” Gia whispered when Dusty resumed his schtick on stage.
“Don’t go.¡Por favor!I’m sorry—I got excited and I wanted you to be, too.”
“I should—”
“Stay. Okay? Don’t try to bail every time you feel uncomfortable.”
The crowd was drawn back into Dusty’s monologue; he was delivering a story as promised. His girlfriend had recently left him for an older drag queen, which he said made no sense since they were both gay—and opposite genders. “But who am I to judge anyone’s sexual proclivities? I dress like a man, but I don’t want to be a man. Nor do I want to bang one,” he continued in the background while Gia scoped the easiest exit route. The front door was the only option, which meant walking past everyone in the bar. Which meant being branded “Gia, the one who couldn’t take a joke at the bar.” The last time she couldn’t take a joke at a bar, she ended up in a hayfield outside Austin with a huge hangover and a new tattoo on her right butt cheek in the shape of a Longhorn cow’s head.
“I’m not bailing because I’m uncomfortable,” Gia insisted, downing the rest of her coffee in one gulp. “Gotta get to work. I’ll just call a Lyft. See you next week.”
“G, wait. Stay a little longer. I promise I’ll behave.” Roxi placed her hand on Gia’s thigh—a little too high—and looked into her eyes. The goosebumps were instant and noticeable. So much for keeping an ace in the hole—her body betrayed her and spilled her secrets. Damn that woman and her hands.
Gia told herself she had every reason to bolt.
She didn’t owe Roxi anything. She didn’t owe Dusty anything.
And yet.
