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As I glanced back at the makeup area, I saw a tall, thin young man in tight brown slacks and a fitted, long-sleeved top in the same color. He had a lithe, almost feminine quality. What made him stand out was that he wore stilettos, and when he walked, his gait rivaled that of the surrounding women. He walked so fluidly I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I nudged Craig.

“Wow,” Craig said as he looked at where I nodded.

“Watch how he walks. It looks like he’s coaching one of the women,” I replied. “He holds himself so effortlessly, especially in those stilettos. He’s almost floating.” The man spun to face the contestant he was working with, moving with incredible grace and poise.

“Impressive. He must be a coach of some sort,” Craig replied.

“Now you try,” I heard the man say in an accent as I strained to hear him. She made her best attempt, which wasn’t bad, but nowhere near what the coach had done. “Pull your shoulders back, and don’t sway your hips as much when you put one foot in front of the other, dear.” Although he had a pleasant demeanor, I could sense his frustration. She walked back after spinning around, and the man clapped and gave her a big smile. “See? Don’t force it. Stay mindful,” he said, taking her hands in his. She nodded and gave him a controlled hug before dashing down a hallway, still in athletic wear and wearing stilettos of her own.

The man walked toward us, still in his high heels, with the same walk that had grabbed my attention. I had the urge to say something to him, but thought better of it. He smiled as he passed us, flashing a perfect smile my way. I watched his eyes travel up and down my body without subtlety. He didn’t stop as he headed toward a group of ladies who looked runway-ready.

“Looks like you have an admirer,” Craig teased.

“Well, I look damn fine in this outfit,” I replied.

He snorted. “And so humble, too.”

“Jealous much?” I shot back at him.

“Honey, you’re mine. I’m not jealous of ‘Miss Thing.’”

His comeback made me snort. What made it even funnier was the ease with which he’d said it.

Once I’d caught my breath, I said, “I’d like to sneak a peek at the showroom and the audience. I hear lots of muffled chatting out there mixed with the music.”

“Yeah, they’re probably talking about how good-looking you are,” he replied. I knew if we kept that up, he’d keep getting the last word in, so I gave his arm a swat.

We maneuvered between a few black curtains to peek out at the audience. I’d been told it seated about twelve hundred, and they expected it to be nearly full, according to Chet. From the looks of the resort and how busy it was, I figured we’d have a full house. I was sure it would be standing room only if the news of the two missing women became widely known.

We’d learned that the pageant organization kept the disappearance of Gretchen and Jasmine from the mainstream media. The contestants were told not to post anything on their socials that would add fuel to the fire. But when Gretchen’s disappearance became known, a couple of the contestants posted about it. The organization made them delete their posts quickly to let it die down. Questions directed to the pageant were redirected or denied, but I was sure there’d be a shitshow frenzy once it finally got out. The pageant organization was going to be doing quite a bit of damage control in the coming weeks.

Backstage, the controlled chaos became a show in itself once the ceremony began. The stage manager, contestant coordinator, wranglers, and production assistants kept the pandemonium in check and in sync. What went into the competition was mind-blowing, and I was impressed. I was amazed that, even though some had seemed nervous earlier, they didn’t show it once the ceremony got underway.

Miss Nevada was finally crowned after two and a half hours, and I was slightly disappointed that she wasn’t from Boulder City.

12

CRAIG

Ienjoyed seeing the behind-the-scenes work that went into creating what came to life onstage. True to my word, I snapped some photos of the contestants backstage, so Jonesy had a collection of gown and makeup ideas for his drag persona. Now that the crowning of Miss Nevada was complete, I was ready to hit the casino with a vengeance.

It was still early, and after we thanked Chet for the backstage passes, I wanted to find a blackjack table. The casino was busy, with gamblers decked out in their finest. I figured many had come from watching the pageant. The crowd seemed to radiate wealth and privilege, and to be honest, I felt a little like a high roller. The only difference was that I had allotted myself only two hundred dollars to play with. One can pretend, though, right?

Jonesy wasn’t much of a gambler, but he enjoyed watching me play. If I stayed too long at a table, he would wander off to get a drink and sit in the sportsbook. I usually found him there after I’d been smart enough to walk away with my winnings, or if the house left me with empty pockets. I was usually ready for a drink either way.

Since it was our only night here, he stayed close. He was a people-watcher and always got a kick out of watching the strategies or superstitions gamers used to improve their odds. Some blew on the dice or lined up the dots in a specific way at the craps table. Others chose birthdays and anniversaries to bet on in roulette, and some had to sit in a specific chair every time they played poker or blackjack. Jonesy always said people were creatures of habit, and I had to agree. I always liked to sit in the fourth chair from the right when I played blackjack. I didn’t know why. It was just my strategy—if you could call it that.

I found a ten-dollar-limit table with two other players, and as luck would have it, the fourth chair was free. As I made a beeline for the table, I shot Jonesy a wink and a smile. He followed and took up a position behind me. I sat down and placed five twenties on the felt.

“Do you have a player’s card, sir?” the dealer asked. I shook my head because I didn’t gamble much and didn’t feel the need for one. He handed me two stacks of five-dollar chips, and I exchanged a couple for some singles.

Excitement flooded me, and I planned to beat the house tonight. Unfortunately, by the seventh hand, I was down to eight dollars and felt dejected. I could only stare at the stacks of chips the second guy at the table had in front of him.

I looked over my shoulder at Jonesy, who quirked his mouth in sympathy. “I don’t think blackjack is working out for me tonight,” I sighed, picking up the few chips I had left. I thanked the dealer as we left the table. “That money went quickly.”

“It’s why it’s called gambling, babe,” he muttered.

We walked past table after table of winning players, and my gut twisted with envy each time I heard a whoop or holler from somewhere on the gaming floor. “I need to slow my roll. I have eight dollars left, and I don’t want to feel like I haven’t at least gotten something out of it.” I took a deep breath, hoping for Lady Luck to at least brush up against me.