“Is that the worst insult you have?” I teased.
“I have more. Just not for you.”
Franco insisted on riding with us, even though his apartment was closer to the club by half. He asked for a shot when he arrived and then another before we left. I told him sloppy Franco could easily slide into asshole Franco, neither of which would win him any points with his ex-lover.
We crowded into an Uber with Arden chatting up the driver while Franco second-guessed himself in the backseat.
“He’s probably fucking someone else already,” Franco said, voicing his worries out loud. “He gets offers all the time. Men richer than me. What if I’m making a fool of myself?”
“You’re take-me-back game is as good as it’s ever been,” I assured him. “Just make your best case and let Marquis decide whether he wants to give it another go. That’s really all you can do.”
“I’ll buy him his expensive meals,” Franco said, as though he were having an argument with the man himself. “He can eat only the garnish for all I care.”
“Franco,” Arden said, twisting around to address him from the front seat. “I have a few things to say about your fixation that he’s only using you for your money, but I think you need another drink first.”
“Your boyfriend is not an idiot,” Franco said to me as if it were a revelation. “Liam’s wrong. You’re the lucky one in this match.”
“I agree one hundred percent.” I hoped Arden wasn’t upset by the slight, but more likely, he’d simply chosen to ignore it.
“Here it is,” Franco said to our driver. The line outside was already forming, and it was only ten o’clock. “What if he’s not working tonight?”
“It’s Saturday, and he’s their best dancer,” Arden said.
“How do you know that?” Franco asked.
“Because you told me.”
“Yes, right.”
Franco, normally so smooth and unruffled, was out of sorts. It was amusing to me but also concerning. I wanted him to be happy.
We climbed out of the car, and though I’d be fine with waiting in line, Franco was not. But it wasn’t his money which greased the wheels this time, it was Arden, plucked from the gathering crowd by a musclebound bouncer and invited to skip the line. Arden brought Franco and I along with him, and like royalty, we were escorted into the club.
“I know him,” Arden said to Franco’s obvious question as to why he was getting preferential treatment. “We used to go to the same gym,” he added, perhaps so that I wouldn’t make any assumptions about their acquaintance. I tried to act nonchalant about it, but Arden was perceptive.
The club was large for being in the heart of Chelsea. The first floor was mostly for dancing with a stage occupied tonight by a deejay and sound equipment. Surrounding the dance floor were the bars and high-top tables. The upper level, where we were headed, was a little quieter and more intimate, for private parties and those who might wish to conduct business. It overlooked the dance floor but was separated from it by the club’s main attraction and its namesake, the carousel.
The carousel was a circular platform where the dancers performed. With the exception of the cages, each of the stations centered around a pole that had been repurposed from a vintage carousel ride. When the club was busy, the platform turned, so that you could view the entire array of dancers without leaving your seat. For now, the platform was empty, as their performance had not yet begun.
I’d only been here a couple of times, but I suspected Franco had become something of a regular since his first encounter with Marquis. That was at Franco’s thirtieth birthday party where Marquis had performed a memorable strip tease on roller skates, and Franco had been smitten. I didn’t know who arranged the lap dance, but it was by far Franco’s favorite gift that night.
Liam was already seated in one of the black vinyl chairs, his drink placed neatly on a coaster on one of the low tables. We made our greetings and ordered drinks, all of them alcoholic except for Arden’s club soda with lime. He’d assured me he didn’t mind, but I’d been cutting back lately so that he didn’t have to be the only sober one at any given function.
Now, my boyfriend was sitting across from a very dour Franco, about to give him a rude awakening.
“I wasn’t there, of course, but from the way you talk about Marquis and your blow-up, it sounds to me like you were being incredibly classist,” Arden said. Ever since our threesome, they’d reached a level of familiarity that would have otherwise taken years to achieve. I could tell Liam was taken aback by the candid way in which Arden addressed him.
“Classist?” Franco exclaimed. “I bought him whatever he wanted. How is that classist?”
“You’re looking at it as a debt when you should be looking at it as a redistribution of wealth. You invited him out, knowing he was a working man. Therefore, you should pay for your shared expenses.”
“It shouldn’t be assumed that the top has to pay,” Liam interjected. “Then you’re just repeating heteronormative gender roles, and that’s sexist.”
“It’s not about who tops or bottoms,” Arden said. “Or even if sex is involved. It’s about who has more resources.”
“Well, it’s not as if they shared their most recent tax returns,” Liam said in Franco’s defense. “I’m sure the dancers here are compensated well enough to pay for a meal.”
“He could have offered,” Franco said. “I still would have paid, but he could have at least offered.”
