After the first hour, the crowd is tipsy and rowdy, and I am running on nothing but adrenaline and pure, stubborn spite. Miles is still nowhere to be seen.
I try not to dwell. I do. I fail miserably.
By the time we hit the midway mark, I’m starting to sweat for real, and not just because of the stage lights. The pit of my stomach is a clenched fist of nerves. This isn’t just a big night. It’sthenight. The one I want him to remember. The one I want to remember, for all the right reasons.
Felix sidles up backstage, smirking, completely hidden in a thick brown robe for some ungodly reason. “You look like you’re about to pass out, boss.”
I huff. “It’s called suffering for my art, Felix. Look it up.”
He grins, sharp as a blade. “Well, buckle up. My number’s next. Who knows, maybe something interesting will happen.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grateful for the distraction. In my show notes, Felix’s act is just three ominous question marks and a scribbled “TBD.” Normally, I’d be annoyed, but tonight, I’m just relieved it’s not my job to wrangle whatever disaster is about to unfold.
I snatch the mic from Dee, who’s still fanning herself from her performance, and sashay back to center stage. “All right, darlings, let’s keep this party rolling! Up next, the only king in town with more attitude than eyeliner, everyone’s favorite go-go boy. Give it up for Felix!”
The applause is immediate, loud, and hungry. I step offstage, catching my breath, fanning myself with the set list. The house lights dim, the familiar hum of anticipation prickling over my skin. Then the speakers blast out the opening chords of“I Hate Everything About You” by Three Days Grace. The crowd goes silent for a beat. Then Felix stomps onto the stage, dressed as the Grinch in full green body paint and a Santa jacket, every movement campy and exaggerated. He sneers at the audience, shoves over the prop snowman from the holiday set, and does a death drop that nearly takes out the front row. The audience is in stitches, and the whole club is suddenly alive with confusion and delight.
I stand frozen for a second, hand over my mouth, unsure if I should laugh or run for cover.
But then there’s a clatter on the stairs. And I see him. Miles Dalton, in a fitted crimson suit with a green waistcoat and a red top hat, coming down the center aisle like a man on a mission.
My heart stops. My brain tries to reboot. I wonder if I’m hallucinating from stress. He doesn’t look at the stage. He looks straight at me and grins. The rest of the room parts like the Red Sea as he strides forward, the spotlights catching on the glint of his tie, the gloss of his boots, the glitter someone, probably Patti, has dusted into his beard. He walks to the foot of the stage, waits for the cue, and then Felix, the damn traitor, throws out a hand in a grand, melodramatic gesture. Miles climbs up the steps without missing a beat and joins Felix in the middle of the stage.
I’m not prepared. I am, for the record, never prepared for Miles Dalton to do anything, but this is a new level of surprise.
They have a whole routine worked out. It’s silly, it’s campy, it’s two men in holiday drag fake-brawling over a present, and then Felix climbing my man like a Christmas tree and attempting to use him like a stripper pole. Felix plays the heel, mugging for the crowd, and Miles gives every ounce of himself to the bit, stomping, twirling, even attempting a high kick. He almost lands it.
When the song hits the final chorus, the DJ, god bless him, cross-fades into “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred, and the lights go full disco. Felix rips off his Grinch coat, revealing a sequined crop top and hot pants that make even the gym rats whistle. They strut the stage together, a duet of absurdity and confidence, egging each other on. At one point, Felix drops to all fours, and Miles uses him as a footrest, reclining in his suit like a conquering hero. The queens backstage are losing their absolute shit, shrieking and pounding the walls.
Miles, that absolute maniac, is doing a striptease number on my stage in front of half the town, and he’s not even a little bit subtle about it. I’m frozen in the wings, hand over my mouth, only partially to keep from shrieking with laughter. Then Miles, the absolute lunatic, the love of my life, the disaster in Santa drag regalia with a perfect ass in tight pants, struts to center stage and starts…well, it’s not quite a runway walk, but it’s committed. The queens backstage are screaming. The college kids are screaming. I’m screaming, internally, externally, metaphysically.
He’s ridiculous. He’s perfect.
I actually double over, catching myself on the velvet curtain. He’s terrible at it, and yet somehow it works. He’s all chest, all attitude, shoulders back, channeling every beefcake model he’s ever seen on Instagram, and it’s glorious. He gets about halfway across the stage before he nearly trips, and instead of panicking, he milks it, stumbling theatrically and then catching himself with a deep, showy bow.
He locks eyes with me, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered joy. He’s having fun. Not just playing at it, not faking it for the crowd, but living in the moment, letting himself be seen, be ridiculous, be beautiful. I feel something unspool in my chest, a tightness I didn’t even know I’d been carrying, and for a second, I have to blink hard because I’m going to ruin mymascara if I’m not careful. Felix, bless him, plays the perfect hype man, flanking Miles and trading campy poses at the back of the stage. When the music hits the chorus, they synchronize a little shoulder shimmy, and I hear the bellow of the firefighters in the corner losing their shit.
The number builds, and as the bridge hits, Miles saunters to center stage, pausing for effect. He makes a big show of reaching for his jacket buttons, fumbling them open one by one. He’s red in the face but never breaks character, even when he gets stuck on the third button and has to rip the rest open with a two-handed yank.
The jacket and the vest underneath come off in one dramatic whoosh, exposing the white shirt beneath. The women at the front table lose it, one of them actually pounding the table in excitement. Someone throws a handful of dollar bills. Miles, in a moment of pure inspiration, picks one up and tucks it into his own waistband, then blows a kiss to the table.
Chapter Fourteen
Miles
I take the cash with a flourish, tucking it into my waistband like I was born to work a stage, then reach for the final trick up my sleeve. I tear the jacket off with both hands, shoulders flexed, making sure every eye in the house is glued to the sudden expanse of muscle and sweat beneath the tailored white shirt. The jacket sails through the air, landing in the lap of a delighted bachelorette, who shrieks loud enough to rattle glass.
The timing is perfect. “I’m Too Sexy” hits the chorus, the lights lock onto me, and every drag queen in town starts screaming. Dollar bills are already flying, the regulars howling, and for a second, all the nerves I ever had about being on this stage just evaporate in the heat of it. I strut across the stage, hips rolling with what I hope is at least a passable facsimile of the attitude I spent the last week learning from Dixie. Every step is punctuated by the wild energy in the room. Stomps, hoots, that weird banshee noise Patti makes when she’s excited. The crowd is eating it up, and I lean in, feeding off it.
I hit the far end of the stage, pivot, and wink at the table of rowdy B&B staffers, where Eva is standing on her chair and screaming. Then, with a slow, exaggerated motion, I startunbuttoning my shirt. One. Two. Three. I pause, teasing it, shimmying my shoulders so the shirt gaps open and flashes the black leather straps beneath.
From the corner of my eye, I spot May in the wings. At first, he’s got that glazed, shocked look, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Then, as I pop the last button and yank the shirt off, letting it flutter to the stage, his expression shifts. His lips part, eyes narrowing, and suddenly it’s not shock at all. It’s hunger. He tracks every move, zeroing in like a predator.
I strike a pose center stage, give them the full view. The harness Felix made me practice putting on with one hand is buckled tight across my chest, shoulders gleaming with sweat, the cut of my abs visible in the wild, roving lights. I do a slow turn, flex just a little, and the club explodes again. Carlyle is behind the bar, pounding the surface with both fists, while Ara fans herself with a bingo paddle.
The track slams into the next verse, and I drop into the routine, working the runway like it’s my last night on earth. Dee’s signature hip roll. Anna’s spinning pose. The arm-pop Dixie drilled into me until my triceps quivered. It’s all there. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying, committed, and for the first time since I was seventeen, I love being seen. Dollar bills collect around my boots, sticking to the sweat on my skin. The lights make it hard to see, but I can feel the energy, the way the whole room is with me, hungry for whatever comes next.
I spot May again. He’s not hiding at the edge of the curtain now. He’s stepped into the light, arms crossed, face unreadable except for the flush high on his cheeks.
