“Don’t shave my eyebrows,” I grumble.
He gasps. “I would never.”
My eyes are still closed, but I know he’s placed his hand on his heart, fake-affronted.
He totally would shave them, by the way.
Also, don’t let the short stature and the black-and-pink beehive wig fool you. Rafi’s fluent in five languages and a demon with a sniper rifle.
Twenty minutes later, he claps his hands. “Okay, open ’em!”
I blink and am immediately accosted by a finger in my eye and—ouch—burning pain.
“What the hell, Rafi?”
“Brown-colored contact lenses! Spock never had your beautiful color, and we must be precise.”
I glare up at him, a move that makes the contacts slide over my eyes in a most unpleasant way. “I’m taking these off.”
“No.” He bats my hand away, and I glare at Everett, who makes a big show of wiping his hands, divesting himself of this tragedy before he can get pulled into it.
My sigh comes from the pit of my stomach, but I give in.
Rafi claps again and sits next to me, pulling out a hand mirror. “I don’t even recognize you!”
He’s right. Between the hairstyle, the clean-shaven face, the makeup, and now the contacts, I look like a completely different person. To be honest, I’m a little relieved. I don’t hit the clubs, but there is a small chance I could have been recognized by a hookup, and I don’t want to explain that to Rafi.
He has his suspicions about my sexuality but has largely kept them to himself.
We hop onto a pedicab, with a driver dressed like Willie Nelson, and enjoy the short ride north into downtown. Riding down the hilly part of Congress Avenue, we are treated to the beautiful view of the capitol building. Tonight, it is perfectly framed in ink-black skies and city lights.
Rafi sits on Everett’s lap in the tiny cab, and they’re in their own world. I’m happy for my brother-in-law, but a part of me I thought I’d killed off long ago…aches.
We get to the club in no time and are barely in the door when Rafi starts shoving Jell-O shots into my hands. I’m not much of a drinker and am surprised at how strong the shots actually are. The last one came in a syringe and was more vodka than anything else.
Rafi drags me onto the dance floor, and, despite myself, I’m reminded that I used to love dancing. The music is good, and even though the contacts are irritating as hell, the stares from the cute geeky guys aren’t unwelcome. When a few of them shyly dance up against me, I let them, but with Rafi nearby, I don’t overtly encourage them.
Not that he’s paying attention—he and Everett are lost in each other, grinding in a way that is tipping closer and closer to profane with each song. Before long, Rafi, flushed and wig askew, taps my arm.
“Hey, we’re gonna head home. You wanna come with us, or are you good to get back on your own?”
I’m not ready to leave the dance floor just yet, but I know I can’t stay here by myself without raising suspicions. “Actually, I might check out the band across the street.”
Rafi brightens. “Yay! I’m so glad you’re staying out. It’s good for you to be around other humans.”
I follow them outside and touch my hand to my heart. “Fi Amaanillah,” I say, wishing them a safe journey. Rafi does the same and squeezes me around my waist.
I cross the street as they grab another pedicab, then pay the entry fee before descending into the open-air Cedar Street Courtyard. The band on the stage is one I’ve seen many times, so I stay for a song and tip them before making my way through the crowds and across the street again.
The line for entry is epic, but the bouncer remembers me from earlier and waves me over. He’s shredded and heavily tattooed with large gauges in his ears, and I let him see me looking. I bet he’d be fun in bed.
“That’s a great costume, man,” he says as he lets me in past the others. “It’d look good on my bedroom floor.”
Score. Humming in his ear, I respond, “I bet it would.”
“I’ll come find you later,” he says, nodding to the entrance.
Curving my hand over his ass, I nip his earlobe. “Sounds like a plan.”
